If Things Were Different
by magfreak
Summary: What if Robert had squandered Cora's fortune before the Titanic sank? What if Matthew had inherited the money needed to save Downton before he became the heir? What if Tom had made something of himself before he met Sybil? An alternate Downton universe set in season one that explores how Sybil and Tom's relationship would have developed if they'd met under different circumstances.
1. Chapter 1

_What if Robert had squandered Cora's fortune before the Titanic sank? What if Matthew had inherited the money needed to save Downton before he became the heir? What if Tom had made something of himself before he met Sybil? An alternate Downton universe set in season one that explores how Sybil and Tom's relationship would have developed if they'd met under different circumstances._

_I am still working on Physical Therapy, but I've got that one more or less outlined until the end and was eager to get something new going. Anyway, I wanted to write a period-accurate Downton fic that went back to season one, but I didn't want to do another Sybil and Tom "missing moments" fic as there are already lots of great ones out there. What I decided to do was to keep bits and pieces of the canon plot but change the chronology of Robert's bad investment and the Swire inheritance and change Tom's background. In this version of events, he is the child of Reginald and Isobel Crawley's Irish housekeeper and grows up alongside Matthew—I love the bromance, can you tell :)—but he never worked in service himself. He will still be an Irish republican, a socialist, and a supporter of women's rights, but thanks to help from Matthew' parents, which will be explained in the story, he has a middle class job and is financially independent and comfortable. _

_I will try to remain true to the characters as we know them, but when tweaks are necessary to accommodate the plot changes I've made I'll try to make them as believable as possible. Lastly, regarding Sybil's age, I'm making her 15 at the start of this story, so she'll be 18 for her first season in 1914. _

* * *

**Prologue**

**July, 1911**

Sybil Crawley knew her father to be a sentimental man. So it was with great curiosity that Sybil watched him on this day. For this was the day the Crawley family was leaving its ancestral seat, leaving the only place Sybil had called home, leaving a life of exceeding excess and opulence, leaving Downton Abbey.

_Perhaps_, she thought, _shame overrules sentimentality. Papa cries when he's sad and surely he is sad today, but more than sad he is ashamed. _

Sybil knew Robert Crawley saw Downton as his duty, his life's work. And yet there were no tears in his eyes this morning, no emotion in his expression. Nothing.

But, indeed, if Sybil could have looked into her father's heart now, she would have witnessed his deep, deep shame. He had let down his family, his forbears, his employees, everyone. Those were the words that kept running over in his mind, the same words he had used back in April, when he and his wife, Cora, had informed their daughters that Downton Place, a smaller house further north in Yorkshire, was to be their new home. Robert, Cora, Mary and Edith would go to London for the season, as usual—Sybil, not yet out, would stay behind with her governess for one more summer to enjoy the abbey's glorious library on her own—but upon her family's return to the country, they would all have to say goodbye to the grand house and to the majority of the staff, Sybil's governess included, who would not be moving on with them.

The move was the result of a series of bad investments that had shriveled Cora's fortune. (Sybil knew enough about her family's history to know that though her father had brought his aristocratic blood and title to the match, Cora had brought her American money.) The large parcel of land that made up the estate had to be broken up for sale. The house itself and its immediate surroundings would not be sold—Robert's pride could not take so great a hit—but would be left vacant or rented if a suitable tenant could be found. The price of its upkeep and staff was now too much for the family to bare if it expected to maintain a London house and its position in society. Everyone would talk about it, of course, but Robert had hardly been the first lord to mismanage and then lose his estate.

_How could he be expected to run it efficiently, be in charge of it_, Sybil had always wondered, _when his upbringing requires everything else to be done _for _him. _It was a contradiction that made Sybil uncomfortable with the position and comfort that she understood was hers only by accident of birth.

She thought of this again as she watched her father standing, stoic, outside the abbey's doors just as the family was set to depart for Downton Place. Then she thought of the day she'd first seen him cry.

She was 8 years old, and one of Robert's beloved dogs had died. Sybil herself had been fond of the creature and didn't know life without it. So when her mother had told Sybil that the dog's old age had finally caught up to it, Sybil felt the sting of tears in the back of her eyes. On the verge of crying, she sought out her father, his comfort, only to find him as emotional as she was. More emotional, in fact.

It was jarring to realize at such a young age that the pillar you expect to lean on is suddenly not as sturdy as you had imagined or hoped. She supposed now, nearly 16, that that might have been the moment she realized her parents would not always have the answers she was looking for. She supposed too that holding back her tears and not throwing a tantrum, as other children might have, and instead offering her father the comfort she had sought from him was the first time she did something other than what might have been expected of her. It was, in effect, her first rebellion.

Robert was not crying now. Nevertheless, Sybil stepped out of the motor, where she'd been sitting and waiting along with her sisters, walked to her father and took his hand. Then, she said what she'd said to him when she was 8 years old.

"We will be all right."


	2. Chapter 2

_Didn't expect to follow up so soon, but my mind was eager to start spinning this and I started writing almost as soon as I posted the story. Thank you to everyone who has read, reviewed, followed and favorited it already! I'm really excited about the possibilities, and I hope I do these characters justice in these new circumstances. _

_A few quick things . . ._

_In the show, Robert says they can live at Downton Place with eight servants. I'm making that ten: Mr. Carson as butler, Mrs. Hughes as housekeeper, Bates as Robert's valet (I'm skipping the way he is introduced in the show and still deciding how Anna/Bates happens, but assume they are not a couple yet), O'Brien as Cora's lady's maid, Anna and Gwen as housemaids, Thomas as footman, Mrs. Patmore as cook, Daisy as kitchen maid and Mr. Pratt as chauffer. I have no idea whether those would be the positions needed on a staff this small, but those were the characters I wanted to keep._

_Also, I'm introducing the "Gwen wants to be a secretary and Sybil helps" storyline earlier than the timeline of the show. On the show, when it starts she's already done the course and is looking for a job, which is when Sybil gets involved. Here we see the beginning of the aspiration, and how Sybil encourages her from the start. In this universe, I intend for these two to be lifelong friends, so this is how it begins._

_Lastly, as I've started outlining this story, I've realized that it's going to be long, and it's going to take at least a couple of chapters for Tom to come on the scene. Be patient, I already have the scene in which Sybil and Tom meet in my head, and I promise it will be worth the wait! _

* * *

**March 1912**

"Where were you all day yesterday?"

It was the rare morning that Cora had come down for breakfast. Robert, Mary and Edith had already eaten and gone. Sybil had been a bit late, having stayed up reading the night before. Cora, used to taking breakfast in bed, had also come down late, and now was taking advantage of their being alone for the purpose of keeping tabs on her youngest daughter. She'd been doing that more and more lately, Sybil couldn't help but notice.

"In the library," Sybil answered.

"No you weren't," Cora replied. "I looked there, and I called out for you."

Sybil didn't really want to give up her special spot, but there was no real point in concealing her whereabouts. She doubted anyone else would use it, and if it was hiding from Cora that she was after, there were other, better ways to do that.

"There's a small alcove in the far corner that's hard to see from the door. It's perfect for reading because it's so quiet." The alcove was one of Sybil's favorite features of Downton Place. The library was smaller, the collection less extensive than the one she had grown up with, but the alcove was a sanctuary unlike any she had found in her previous home.

"So you didn't see me, but you ignored me when I called?"

"Of course, not mama! It's quiet because it keeps all the noises out. I couldn't hear you."

"Well, you missed our trip to Ripon. I wanted to get you new ribbons for your hair for dinner tonight, but I didn't know what colors you would want."

Sybil smiled at this. Even at her age, now 16, her mother rarely let her choose her own clothes or colors. Rare was the trip to the dressmaker during which Sybil was allowed any input at all.

"I'm certainly sad to have missed an opportunity to make my own choice."

Cora smiled back, accepting Sybil's needling as a mother would. "You can choose one you like from the ones I bought for you."

"See, so I wasn't needed after all."

"But I don't want you to miss the next trip, and I want to make sure you give Anna enough time to help you get ready tonight."

"Mama, you know I don't need Anna's help. I've been dressing myself for months."

"I really wish you wouldn't do that Sybil."

"Why not? I'm perfectly capable of tying a few knots."

"It is below your station, my dear. I realize that as you grow up, you may have missed out on some of the luxuries that Mary and Edith enjoyed at the big house, but that's no reason to pretend we are less than we are."

"I don't feel it is beneath me to dress myself. I rather like it, in fact. It gives me purpose at the start of the day—even if my life has no purpose at all. At least not yet." This last, even Sybil could admit, came out a bit petulant, but she couldn't help it.

The life of sitting in parlors and chatting about idle things, waiting for the day she would be presented to society and then married was a bit boring to Sybil. She was curious as to what life would be once she was out in society—if for no other reason than it would perhaps be different from the life she led now. When she still had her governess, at least she had someone to talk to regularly who would listen without judgment, taught her about the world and literature and gave her the means to escape, in her own imagination, her current confines. But as good as her governess had been, Sybil still wished she'd been given the chance to go to school, to learn things that would be useful if she ever dared venture out into the world without the safety net of her family and position. That idea had been on her mind recently, as she had been re-reading Jane Eyre and wondering whether she'd have the capacity to survive on her own the way Jane did.

"My darling, you are still so young. You'll find something that captures your interest and that you love, eventually, but you mustn't forget who you are. Please be ready for Anna this evening. It's very important that we all look our best for James and Patrick. They are planning on traveling to America in a few weeks, and it may be months before we see them again."

"Well, we shouldn't ask so much of Anna. She has plenty to do as it is—Lord knows, she has her hands full with Mary and Edith. I can ask Gwen to help. She's done so before."

"Gwen doesn't have as much practice doing the work of a lady's maid. She's a housemaid and should focus on doing that job well."

"Anna is a housemaid, too."

"Yes, but she's been taking care of you girls for a long time now."

"Perhaps it's Gwen's ambition to be a lady's maid. She can't desire to be a housemaid forever, and how is she to gain experience if she's not allowed to practice?"

Cora took a deep breath and let out a quiet laugh at her youngest daughter's headstrong nature. "Oh, all right, but please let me see you before you go down."

Sybil smiled, rather meekly, as if to offer thanks for being given her way. "Thank you, mama."

They continued eating in a companionable silence. As she was leaving, Sybil told her mother that she'd be taking advantage of the early spring warmth and go for a walk before luncheon.

Cora smiled warmly. "Thank you for letting me know."

As she watched Sybil go Cora realized just how much her youngest daughter had grown up in the last year. At age sixteen, she was already a beautiful young woman. The move to Downton Place—where there were fewer servants around to keep tabs on her and where they held fewer dinners and parties for guests—had given Sybil a greater measure of freedom than she had enjoyed before. That freedom stoked an independent streak in her that would have made Cora proud if it wasn't always giving her fits. It pained Cora to think that Sybil would come to her season, just two years away, and be seen as diminished in comparison with the grandeur that her sisters had come out in. But deep down, she was also grateful it was Sybil who would be faced with this. Her character—kind, forgiving and never inclined to ostentation—would make the very best of it. Grace was not a quality one would expect in one so stubborn as Sybil could be, but Cora knew her daughter had it in spades.

**XXX**

"Gwen, what do you wish to do in life?" Sybil asked as the young housemaid, not so many years older than Sybil herself, was working to fasten Sybil's corset as she dressed for dinner.

"I beg your pardon, milady?"

"You're young and you have a job already, but I was wondering if there was something greater that you aspired to?"

Gwen was taken a bit by surprise. Lady Sybil had always been kind to her, to be sure, and always spoke with candor and sincerity, soliciting Gwen's opinions even about things that, given her status as a housemaid, Gwen had very little experience with. Sybil treated Gwen, essentially, as a friend. But despite how close in age they were, Gwen's position gave her a knowledge of the harshness of the world that Sybil did not yet know fully, and it was Gwen who often had to remind Sybil of the line that separated them.

All that aside, Gwen liked having a friend in Lady Sybil and answered her question as honestly as she could. "Well, milady, without meaning to sound ungrateful for this position or for having work at all—"

"Gwen, you certainly don't have to worry about me thinking you impertinent for wanting to do better than having to dress me," Sybil said with a smile.

Gwen smiled widely. "I'm sorry, milady."

"And don't apologize! Just speak freely. While it's just us here, please consider me a friend, one who will not betray your confidences."

"All right." Gwen stopped for a moment her fidgeting with the strings on the corset to contemplate what she would say. "I've often thought of trying for a job outside of service, like secretarial work."

"Really? That sounds rather exciting!"

"It is but, I'm afraid I don't have the skill for it. There are correspondence courses I can take, but I need a typewriter."

"Are they expensive?"

"I could buy a used model, and I have been saving my wages, but there is the question of how to get it in the house undetected. They are large, you see, and neither Mr. Carson nor Mrs. Hughes would ever allow staff such a thing, even if we promised only to use it on our own time. They'd accuse us of neglecting our other work."

"You're probably right about that." Sybil sat down the on the edge of her bed, trying to think of a way to help. "I know! Order the typewriter, and when it arrives at the post office let me know. I will write to my Aunt Rosamund and ask her to send me a few books from her library. When they arrive, I'll have both parcels delivered to me. If papa asks I'll just say both boxes are full of books—he won't question it, I'm sure. And Aunt Rosamund won't be bothered with confirming whether she sent two parcels or one were because she'll likely have ordered her lady's maid to perform the task anyway. Then, once the typewriter is in the house, we'll find a way to sneak it into your room."

"Would you really go to all that trouble, milady?"

"Of course! Only if you promise that we'll remain friends when you leave us to work as a secretary."

Gwen blushed. "Of course, milady."

The prospect of helping Gwen excited Sybil. The two resumed getting Sybil dressed—and quickly because they had lost some time in their conversation—and chatted about what kind of job Gwen might have someday.

Gwen, in the back of her mind, knew it wasn't prudent to allow herself to dream like this, but she couldn't help it. Sybil's excitement was infectious.

Sybil was too embarrassed to admit that a small part of her was encouraging Gwen for purely selfish reasons. She wanted to see what it was like to train for a job and feel the excitement of possibility. She wanted, in essence, to live vicariously through Gwen. Sybil knew, of course, that it made little sense for an earl's daughter to think this way. Her life, or so her family and others would say, was "better" than Gwen's so why would she covet the experience that Gwen was about to go through in training to be a secretary? Sybil herself did not know the answer to that question. She knew what she felt but could not explain it.

The only thing she could explain—and it was true—was that Gwen was her true friend, and if she could help her in someway she would.

Once she was dressed and her hair was done, Sybil looked in the mirror. "I think it'll do nicely, but who knows what mama will say. I suppose I best get her inspection over with. Thank you for your help, Gwen."

"I don't do as well with this as Anna."

"It's all right." Sybil grabbed Gwen's hands. "Don't forget about the typewriter. I really do want to help."

"I won't."

Sybil moved to leave, then turned back to Gwen. "You know, I thought you might have wanted to be a lady's maid, so I apologize for thinking your dreams were smaller in scope than they truly are."

"No need to apologize, milady," Gwen said. "Your assumption regarding someone of my station is not wrong. I'm the one who may be wrong for believing that being a secretary is possible."

"Please don't think that. I'm glad that you have big dreams, Gwen. I hope someday I can have them, too. I just need to figure out what I want first."


	3. Chapter 3

_This chapter picks up right where we left off in the last one and features Patrick and his engagement to Mary. I've not read any fic involving Patrick, so I don't know whether there is a consensus in the fandom as to who he was beyond the guy Mary didn't really love and Edith did. Canon-wise, we know he was engaged to Mary but might have actually loved Edith—something that has always puzzled me. Even at that time, as the heir, I believe he would have had a choice, which makes me think that he was either toying with Edith or with both Edith and Mary, creating at least some of the animosity between them. So given that, and for the purposes of where this story is going, I've written him as a bit calculating and though well liked by his family not an especially nice person._

_Also with regards to Patrick, Sybil would have been witness to how he treated her sisters in the "courting" context just as she was starting to come of age, and I believe it would have affected how she saw relationships. _

_Lastly, as you may begin to see in this chapter, the loss of Downton has affected the relationship between Robert and Mary._

_The story will REALLY start with the next chapter, which will align with the very end of series one, episode one, bringing both Matthew and Tom on the scene. _

_Anyway, sorry for always writing these long notes. Here we go . . ._

* * *

With her mother's approval, Sybil joined her sisters in Mary's room, where Anna was putting the finishing touches on Mary's hair. She sat down on Mary's bed and began to read the book she had carried in with her as she waited for them, taking an occasional look up to watch their interaction.

Both Mary and Edith seemed to be in a good mood, which was to say that they were not bickering—a rare thing. Sybil attributed that to Anna's calming presence and to their guests that evening. James and Patrick were always a welcome addition to family dinners, enlivening conversations and spirits, especially since the move to Downton Place, where fewer guests came to visit. Robert particularly enjoyed their presence, being otherwise the only gentleman in the house.

James, Robert's first cousin, was technically the next in line to the Grantham title by virtue of the fact that Robert had no sons. But given that James was only a handful of years younger than Robert, everyone considered James' son, Patrick, the true heir. And everyone loved Patrick. _Everyone_, Sybil thought with a roll of her eyes.

Patrick was handsome, well educated and charming, but charming in a way that Sybil—the only Crawley sister not burdened by interest in him beyond a familial fondness—sometimes found a bit ridiculous. He was always kind to her, to be sure, and Sybil loved him as she loved all her family. But she acknowledged to herself that he treated her differently, by virtue of her younger age, from how he treated Mary and Edith, between whom something of a silent war had developed regarding his affections, a war that Sybil believed Patrick was all too eager to stoke.

For Mary, Patrick was a means to have everything that should have been rightfully hers, even in its diminished state, as the eldest Crawley child. Everything that wasn't hers because she was a woman. It was likely that her heart could have truly loved Patrick, if her mind could stop resenting him for his superior position in the family. For Edith, Patrick was simply the man she loved. The two sisters might have been kinder to one another if their interests—pragmatic for the first, romantic for the second—did not intersect in Patrick, but such was the situation. Sybil believed that to keep the peace, an announcement of his preference was all that was needed, but Patrick seemed neither eager to express which of her sisters had his heart, nor interested in turning his attention to another, an heiress perhaps, with whose money Downton Abbey could be saved from its current shuttered state.

He seemed destined to choose between Mary and Edith and yet unwilling to hasten his choice to spare the feelings of the one who would be turned away. Sybil's forgiving heart did not blame him for the situation that was made such by laws that promoted the interests of men above those of women, but she still wished he would do right by his sisters and simply choose, and not allow the acrimony between them to continue to fester.

Finishing the chapter that she was reading, Sybil closed her book and looked to the rest of the room.

"Mama said this morning that James and Patrick are going to America?" She asked. "I wonder what they will be doing."

"They will be looking for business ventures to invest in," Mary said, turning in front of the mirror to see her hair from all angles.

"Investing? What in heavens for? You'd think they might have learned their lesson after papa." Edith said.

"Patrick wants to make a play to reopen Downton Abbey when he's earl, but he needs the money to run it," Mary answered.

"How do you know that?" Edith asked, somewhat miffed at finding herself out of the loop.

"Because we've discussed it, "Mary responded airily. "And he's right. Downton Abbey is our family's historic seat, not Downton Place. That's where the earl and countess belong. It should be preserved. Just because papa wasn't up to the task doesn't mean that Patrick can't step up."

Sybil frowned, "That's rather unkind to say about papa."

"Well, it's true. He mismanaged the estate, and now here we are. Patrick is right to fight for it."

"I still can't believe it's been less than a year since we left," Edith said. "Seems like a lifetime ago."

"I feel the same way," Sybil added, "Though I don't miss it as much as I thought I might. I love the grounds here, and the library, of course. I hardly remember anything to miss, to be honest."

"I remember," Mary said, quietly, almost to herself. Sybil watched her as she stared contemplatively into her mirror until they caught each other's eyes in it and smiled.

"And you, Anna," Sybil said turning to the housemaid, "do you miss it?"

"It was a lovely place, but I miss the staff that could not join us here more than anything."

"Were they all able to find new positions?"

"I believe so by now, Lady Sybil, although I have heard that it was difficult for some of the younger ones. His lordship wrote letters on their behalf, which helped, as it's not something that's usually done."

"I didn't know papa did that," Edith said.

"Nor I," Sybil added. "I'm glad."

"It was very kind of him," Anna said with a warm smile. Finishing up with, she added, "Is that all right, milady?"

"A wonderful effort as always, thank you, Anna," Mary said. She stood from her vanity and turned to her sisters. "We should go down."

**XXX**

The rest of the family, including Robert's mother, Violet Crawley, and their guests were already in the drawing room when the girls arrived. Everyone greeted one another cheerfully. Before any of the girls had sat down, Sybil noticed that Patrick pulled Mary aside to talk privately, in the corner of the room opposite the door. They'd been talking for a few minutes—with a measure of intimacy visible between them that Sybil did not remember ever seeing before—when Robert and James joined them. Shortly thereafter both James and Robert shook Patrick's hand as if to congratulate him about something.

Sybil turned to Edith to ask her if she knew what was being discussed, only to see that Edith was red faced and breathing heavily as if trying to keep her composure.

"Edith, is everything all right?" Sybil asked quietly, but Carson, the butler, came in just at that moment to announce that dinner was served, giving Edith an out to stand and leave without so much as looking at Sybil.

As the family proceeded to the dining room, Sybil saw her mother stop Patrick and kiss him on the cheek. Sybil suddenly felt as if something was about to happen and everyone had been given fair warning about it except for her. It was not an uncommon feeling. In fact, Sybil was rather used to being the last to know. But this time, Sybil sensed, from Edith's distress, that this was something that was going to be bigger than usual, something that would change their lives as dramatically as the move had done.

Sure enough, once everyone else was seated, Robert remained standing to speak.

"Well, tonight is not just a family dinner but a celebration."

"Of what, papa?" Sybil couldn't help but interject.

"I'm getting to that," he retorted with a smile. "Tonight we mark the engagement of Patrick and Mary, future earl and countess of Grantham."

Everyone raised their glasses. Sybil did so keeping her eyes on Edith, who had calmed in the last few minutes. The look on her face was no longer alarm, only resignation. Sybil felt a pang for her sister, for it seemed that Edith was accepting the turn of events as the outcome she had expected all along. Sybil knew that Edith had an inferiority complex when it came to Mary, but it wasn't until this moment that Sybil realized how deeply interwoven into her character it was.

Looking at Mary, Sybil did not see the elation one might expect from a future bride. Mary was always collected and composed, so any outward display of emotion was rare for her regardless of the circumstances. Nevertheless, Sybil still wondered why Mary did not allow herself some sort of reaction. There was none that Sybil could discern. Like Edith, it seemed, Mary had already prepared for this event as the only possible result. And Sybil realized immediately and sadly that whatever peace she had expected to emerge between her sisters from a resolution to the question of Patrick's preference was not to be. The damage was done, perhaps irreparably.

**XXX**

Some time later, after the family had eaten dinner and the women had moved on to the drawing room, Sybil stepped out to retrieve her book from Mary's room where she had left it. On her way back, standing at the top of the main staircase, Sybil overheard an anxious voice in the alcove below her.

It was Edith.

Sybil moved against the wall, where she would not be seen, knowing immediately who it was she was talking to. She remained there as still and silent as possible, knowing she shouldn't listen, but unable to tear herself away.

"But you know you won't be happy with her!"

"This isn't about being happy, Edith. I need to do my duty and bring the family back to Downton. Mary understands that, and she will fight for it alongside me."

"Do you think I wouldn't have?"

"You don't understand. You're not the eldest. Downton doesn't mean to you what it does to me and Mary."

"How can you say that?"

"I know the kind of life you deserve, and I wouldn't have been able to give you that, not when I am making this my mission."

"You're being ridiculous. Both of you are. More you for believing her capable of caring about anything more than she cares about herself. She'll throw you aside at the first opportunity."

"Edith, darling, I'm sorry, but this is what must be done. Cousin Robert has agreed to it. I wish I were not causing you pain, but I cannot stop things now."

Sybil heard the sound of footsteps, followed by the sound of Edith crying, followed by, after Edith seemed to have composed herself, her footsteps in the other direction.

When Sybil returned to the drawing room, Edith was still not back, but there Patrick was standing with Robert at the hearth, laughing at something Robert had said as if the scene Sybil had just inadvertently been privy to had never happened.

**XXX**

Later that evening, Sybil rang for Gwen to help her undress and couldn't help but seek her opinion on everything that was roiling her thoughts that night.

"Gwen, do you plan on getting married?"

Gwen stopped untying the lacing in the back of Sybil's dress to think about her answer. "Honestly, milady, I have not given it much thought."

Sybil sighed. "I'm afraid I haven't either. I'll be expected to marry, but I'm not sure that's what I want, especially after seeing how it has played out for my sisters."

"Are you not happy for Lady Mary and Mr. Patrick?"

"No, I am. Well, I would be if I knew they were going to be happy, at least as mama and papa are now even though they did not marry for love—at least not at first. Anyway, it just makes me wonder whether all the fuss is worth it."

Realizing the intimate secrets she just revealed and concerned for having betrayed her sisters' confidence, Sybil turned quickly to Gwen. But before she could say anything, Gwen answered her worries with a smile. "Don't worry, milady, anything you say I will keep in confidence. I promise."

Sybil smiled. "Thank you. I know I shouldn't be talking about my sisters in this way, but I'm worried about them given everything that's happened between them because of Patrick. He has affected their relationship to such a degree, it's a bit alarming. Things were never entirely serene between them, but their relationship should not be less important, less civil just because of a potential marriage, should it?"

"As an only child, I don't have any wisdom to impart in this area," Gwen said with a rueful smile.

"I'm just being sentimental and silly," Sybil said, finally stepping out of her frock.

As she watched Gwen move to hang it up, she asked again, "Still, aside from all that, do you think that you want to get married someday?"

"I suppose I might like to, but people in service generally don't."

"What about Mrs. Hughes or Mrs. Patmore?"

"The 'Mrs.' is just part of their title—most housekeepers and cooks adopt it. It doesn't mean they are married."

"Oh, I never knew that. But you're going to be a secretary. What then of marriage?"

"It may be different, but to be honest, I have not allowed myself to think too far ahead about that beyond my course."

"Do you _want _to be married?"

Gwen laughed. "If the question is, do I want to meet a nice man someday, then I think the answer is yes, but marriage is often a separate question from love, even for someone like me who doesn't have to worry about the money involved."

"It would be wonderful if it could always be about love, but it seems the more you have or the more you want, the less likely that is to be true. I don't know where that leaves me. I wonder if it will always be this way."

"I don't know. A change in that regard is something to hope for, I suppose."

"Well, until love conquers all, I don't think I'll ever get married."

"Not to sound impertinent, milady, but I've no doubt you'll have plenty of offers."

Sybil laughed. "No, I don't mean that nobody will want to marry me, but rather until I can be sure I can choose for myself, I won't _want_ to get married."

Gwen smirked. "Odds are, now that you've said as much, the good Lord will put someone in your path who will change your mind."

**XXX**

A few doors down from Sybil's, Mary was alone in her room getting ready for bed when she heard a knock on the door. It was Cora.

Mary arched an eyebrow. "Aren't I a little old for you to be checking in on me at this hour?"

"You'll never be too old. Besides, this is a special night."

"Don't be silly, mama," Mary responded, but smiled nonetheless.

The two sat down next to one another on Mary's bed, and Cora took one of Mary's hands into hers.

"Of course, it's special. You're getting married."

"I was always getting married."

"But we didn't know the who until tonight." Cora looked at Mary for a long moment. "Are you going to be happy, my dear?"

"Oh, mama, what a question!"

"I know how you and Patrick feel about Downton Abbey, and if what both of you want is to find a way back, then I hope for the best, but I also want you to be happy."

"Were you happy when you married papa, knowing he didn't love you?"

"I was happy because I believed he would come around," Cora said with a serene smile. "I was naïve perhaps, but things ended up in my favor."

"Well, I do not consider myself naïve, but I do believe things will end up in our favor, and being back at Downton would make me happy." Mary sighed, then went on, "If you're concerned that I don't care for Patrick then, don't be. I do, very much. And I know he loves me. This is what we both want."

Mary stood up and walked over to her vanity. "And if I have a change of mind, he can marry Edith."

"Mary, you shouldn't toy with Patrick like that or your sister."

Mary turned back to Cora with a sharp look on her face. "Those were his words, not mine." She looked back toward her mirror. "But I appreciated them, and if I don't marry him, I would expect any man who asks for my hand to offer me the same courtesy. My mind is the only thing that belongs to me, and I intend to remain the master of it."

Cora stood and walked over to Mary. "I'm sorry, darling, that was unfair of me."

Mary smiled. "It's all right, mama. Thank you for coming in."

Cora moved to leave, but then turned back at the door. "Do you want to say goodnight to your father? He's very happy about it all. You must know that."

"Just tell him I'll see him in the morning."

**XXX**

**April 1912**

Robert didn't need to read the telegram twice. He knew it was true. Murray would never have sent it unless he was sure. He stood from breakfast abruptly, leaving three bewildered daughters behind.

_Distressing news regarding James and Patrick Crawley._

_STOP_

_They were aboard RMS Titanic._

_STOP_

_I have confirmed their names on passenger list._

_STOP_

_No evidence of survival._

_STOP_


	4. Chapter 4

_Thank so much for reading and for your comments!_

_This chapter will begin to introduce Matthew and Tom. It's on the short side, but I intend this to be a long fic, so the details and story will unfold slowly._

_Enjoy!_

* * *

**May 1912**

Matthew Crawley was in a daze.

When he woke up this morning, he was a middle class solicitor, the son of the late Dr. Reginald Crawley and his wife, Isobel, homemaker and part-time nurse. He'd gotten out of bed, washed up and changed, gone down to breakfast with his mother and opened his mail.

Now, he was the future Earl of Grantham—an aristocrat, by title and association if not by pure blood—and heir to a modest fortune, a London house and a series of properties in the north of England.

He wondered whether someone was playing a trick on him. Maybe fate was. Fate had certainly had her way with him in adulthood. After an uneventful childhood, followed by a deeply uninteresting adolescence, since finishing his studies, Matthew's life had taken more life up-ending turns than a Dickens novel. Except that unlike Dickens he hadn't been poor to start and each turn had made him an even wealthier man. He already possessed more inherited riches than he knew what to do with, and now here was his third cousin once removed, Robert Crawley, a man he had met only once as a child, writing to inform him that his money, his land, _everything_, would be Matthew's, by law. Surprise!

As he made his way through the streets of Manchester from the house he had grown up in to the small law practice he shared with his best friend in the business district, Matthew couldn't help but laugh at himself and his inclination to rue good fortune. But he couldn't help but think, _why me_? The world was full of good, but unfortunate souls who lived in squalor. _Why not them?_ What angel in heaven—or was it hell?—had deemed him worthy of a second fortune he had not earned and, in Matthew's own mind, did not deserve?

Were these gifts from the universe supposed to give him direction? Because at the moment, he had none.

When he finally made it to the red brick walk-up, Matthew felt as if he'd been walking around in circles for hours. It was going to be a long day.

Matthew walked through the entryway into the three room office and was greeted by the sight of his best friend and partner Tom Branson sitting in the reception area at their secretary's desk reading a newspaper with his feet up.

"Hard at work as usual, Tom," Matthew said with a smirk as he walked through to his office in the back. He hung up his hat on the back of the door and set down his briefcase on his desk before heading back out to the reception area.

Tom looked up from his paper, "Did you say something?"

"What are you doing out here? Where's Mrs. Landry?"

"Mrs. Landry is home tending to her sick husband. And Finch has taken over my office in order to assemble the latest in office technology, guaranteed to increase my productivity by fifteen percent—so said the salesman anyway. Productivity or not, it's really quite marvelous."

"What could you possibly be talking about?"

Tom smiled. "You're going to want one of your own."

Isaac Finch, the building's caretaker and Tom and Matthew's go-to handyman, stepped out of Tom's office, to the right of the reception area, wiping his hands on his large handkerchief. "All done, Mr. Branson. Gave it a go myself. I think you'll be pleased."

Tom put his paper down and smiled at Matthew while rubbing his hands together. "Wait until you see it."

The three men walked into the office. Tom practically ran to his desk and sat down. Matthew looked around and tried to find what "invention" Tom might have been referring to, but couldn't see anything different. He'd done a full 360-degree turn but did not discover what his good friend was talking about until he'd come all the way around and his eyes landed back on Tom. Somehow, in a manner Matthew could not determine, Tom was spinning in circles behind his desk.

Tom stopped himself putting his hands on his desk. He was wearing the grin of an 8-year-old with a new model train. "Do you want to try it? It's called a swivel chair."

"I don't see how it's going to do anything except _reduce _your productivity down to zero."

"Don't be silly!" Tom pulled his chair back up to his desk. "First, I can have a set of papers on the left corner of my desk,"Tom said turning to face that corner. "Then I can turn 45 degrees to work on papers on the middle of my desk." Tom did as he said. "Then I can turn an additional 45 degrees to work on papers on the right side of my desk." Tom turned slightly again, then lifted his hands up is if in victory. "The entire panorama of my desk, now all of it useful and without the bother of having to lift my chair."

"I've oiled the spindle to stop it squeaking, Mr. Branson. And polished the wood up a bit." Turning to Matthew, he added, "I can have the furniture shop reserve you one, if you'd like Mr. Crawley."

Matthew smiled, "I think I'll see how much work he actually gets done sitting in it first, but thank you."

"Fine work as always, Finch," Tom said, leaning back in his fancy new toy.

Mr. Finch picked up his tools and bid the young men good day on his way out of the office to his rooms on the second floor.

Matthew moved to leave. "I'll be in the office where chairs are actually conducive to work."

Tom smiled and started to sort through the piles of papers in front of him. "By the way, I'll have to skip luncheon at the house. The Hollingers will be by later to update their will. It seems Mr. Hollinger has come into a sum of money from his late uncle."

Matthew hesitated at the door, which did not escape Tom's notice.

"Is something wrong?"

Matthew turned his head back, ready to say no and go on to his office, but after moment's silent consideration, he walked back toward Tom's desk and sat down across from him.

"Do you remember how father used to joke that he came from aristocratic stock?"

Tom smiled. "Remember? How could I forget? Or don't _you_ remember how he used to tell me it was his noble blood that compelled him to rescue a poor little chap like me?"

Matthew laughed. It had been some time since he'd thought of his father. "Well, it was more or less true."

"How do you mean?"

"Father's grandfather was the son of the third Earl of Grantham, not the eldest son—second or third, I'm not sure. The seat is in Yorkshire. It's a grand old house. We stopped by to see it when I was young. It was quite beautiful."

Matthew stopped, letting the memory wash over him. He continued slowly, as if the details were coming back to him only one by one. "I was maybe twelve years old. We had luncheon with the current earl's family. There were three girls."

Tom looked at his friend curiously, wondering what he was getting at.

"Three daughters," Matthew repeated, quietly. "No sons."

"Are you all right?" Tom asked.

Matthew shook his head as if to clear his mind. He looked directly at Tom again. "When there is no son, by law, the heir is the next cousin in the male line. Until a month ago that was the earl's first cousin."

"What do you mean until a month ago? And what does this all have to do with anything?"

"A month ago, the cousin perished on the Titanic, along with his only son."

Tom narrowed his eyes, starting to see where Matthew was leading him.

"The next cousin in the male line is now . . . well, _me_."

"Matthew . . . "

"I'm going to be the next earl of Grantham." Matthew took a deep breath and sank into the chair he was sitting in.

"Crikey," Tom said quietly.

The two sat in silence for a few minutes, letting the weight of the revelation sink in.

"When did you find out?" Tom asked.

"This morning." Matthew pulled the letter from the inside pocket of his jacket and handed it to Tom, who spent a few minutes reading it over.

"Properties? You're getting this man's land?"

"It would seem so."

"And his daughters, they get nothing?"

"I'm sure he'll set aside a dowry for them before he dies, but there are legal complications when it comes to women inheriting titles or property."

Tom rubbed his forehead. "God, the ridiculous laws in this country."

"You've lived here half your life," Matthew said with a smirk.

"I'm born Irish, and I'll die Irish."

"You're lucky the old man wasn't picky and willing to send you back there when he offered to pay for your studies."

"I'll have you know Trinity College, Dublin is one of the oldest and finest universities in his majesty's kingdom. Why else would Uncle Reg have approved me going there?"

"Are we back to calling the king 'his majesty'?"

"Just making my point," Tom said playfully. "So what of this? Am I to call you 'your lordship' from here forward?"

Matthew rolled his eyes. "Oh, God, I hadn't thought of the actual title."

"Maybe you don't have to accept."

"Perhaps. I don't know."

Tom handed him back the letter. "Do you want company, for the trip to London to meet the earl?"

"Maybe. Mother will be coming as well. I'm sure she'd like you along."

Matthew stood to leave. "Will you be coming for dinner?"

"Yes. Mam says there's a broken bookcase in the kitchen that needs mending," Tom said, then he added in a high-pitched woman's voice. "A housekeeper's work is never done!"

"You ought to give her break. She runs the house quite efficiently."

"I give her lots of breaks. She's the one who doesn't like to give them to me."

"Can't you send Finch to fix it?"

"I could, but the old girl's afraid her son doesn't know how to work with his hands. Half the things she asks me to fix, I genuinely believe she broke herself just to test me."

Matthew laughed, then turned to leave. "I'll let you know about London when it's all planned."

Matthew had reached the door back into the reception, when Tom called out to him, "You know maybe there is a silver lining to all this."

"Oh, what's that?"

"Well, aside from inheriting yet another fortune, you did mention there were three daughters. Maybe one of them will fall in love with you."

"Leaving the remaining pair for you?"

"Me? HA! As if a _true _socialist would ever fall in love with an earl's daughter."

Matthew laughed and made his way back to his office, yelling back for his friend to hear, "Famous last words."


	5. Chapter 5

_Thank you so much for the kind comments, everyone! I really means a lot to see your thoughts._

_This chapter is a companion to the last one, introducing Isobel as she, Matthew and Tom are returning to Manchester after their visit to London to meet Robert, so in terms of the show's timeline it's in between episode one and episode two. _

_Regarding Isobel, I recently read something on the Isobel/Ethel storyline that questioned why she didn't hire Ethel before she gave her son away. I think at that time, having a housekeeper/cook with such a young child living in the servants' quarters with her would have gone completely against the norm. Nevertheless, I'm having young Isobel do just that in this story. I don't think it would have been out of character for her. _

_Everyone (including and especially Tom and Sybil) will meet soon! I promise :) _

* * *

**June 1912**

Isobel Crawley watched the English countryside pass by out her window as the events of the last day—indeed, the last month—played over and over in her mind. She had always enjoyed train travel. It made her feel she was going somewhere with a purpose, regardless of her destination.

Purpose was of utmost importance to Isobel. And as she considered her son's future while sitting alone in her train car, she wondered whether he believed he had a purpose, whether he needed her help in finding one, whether he was past the point of needing or wanting a mother's help in that regard.

The letter from Robert Crawley with the news that the tragedy of the Titanic had left him with no heir but Matthew had been an utter shock, leveling any ideas Isobel might have had about Matthew living a long, uneventful and comfortably upper middle class life in Manchester, just as she and her husband had done. Though, if she was honest with herself, she could admit that that imagined future had started to unravel even before the earl's letter had come.

First, there had been his announcement that he would marry Lavinia Swire, the sweet, unassuming daughter of her husband's longtime friend. The announcement itself had not unsettled Isobel. It was the timing. An attachment had existed between Matthew and Lavinia for some time, but there had been no talk of marriage until Lavinia's father, on his deathbed, expressed a delirium-induced request to Matthew that he marry his daughter. Matthew, being who he was, found himself honor-bound to do just that. It was a promise that Isobel—and Lavinia herself—had told him he did not have to keep, but there was no talking him out of it.

Until, of course, fate interceded.

When Lavinia fell ill, she asked Tom—knowing Matthew would object—to make sure that everything that her father had left her would go to Matthew. Tom did as she asked and took the abuse from Matthew when he, in his grief after her death, attacked his best friend for having gone behind his back and secured a fortune for Matthew that Matthew did not believe was his. Eventually, Matthew came around, realizing that in a role reversal, he would have done the same, and mended a fence that Tom assured him wouldn't ever need mending.

Tom Branson was, in fact, the one part of her son's life—and, indeed, her own—that Isobel would never doubt. He was, in his own way, like a son to her.

Isobel still remembered clear as day, the day Claire Branson stepped into her life. Isobel was still a young wife and mother, and though she'd been married for close to four years, still getting used to running her own house. She'd never interviewed someone for the position of housekeeper, having taken her mother's recommendation—an older woman who subsequently chose an early retirement—when she and her husband first made a home together after their wedding.

Claire's Irish brogue was so strong back then, Isobel kept having to ask her to repeat herself, which she did with an increasing measure of embarrassment. Sensing that the interview was not going well, Claire told Isobel about her young son, not yet two years old, whom she'd left behind in Ireland with a cousin and whom she needed to provide for.

"He's why I've come to England, mum, and why I desperately need the work. His father, my husband, passed last year and left us very little on which to live."

"Do you plan on bringing him along eventually?"

"Oh, no, mum! I wouldn't dream of that."

"Well, why not? Surely the place for any young boy is with his mother."

"With respect, there are few families out there that would allow a housekeeper to keep a child with them. I couldn't afford to rent a room and not live in the servants' quarters on the premises, and that's what I'd have to do if I brought Tommy along. No, he'll be fine so long as I can get a job and send home some money."

Isobel was nothing if not a progressive-minded woman. Moreover, her own motherhood called on her at that moment to consider what it would be like for her if life forced her to leave Matthew behind. Suddenly, Claire Branson's qualifications didn't matter.

"Mrs. Branson, what if I told you that you could bring your son here?"

"What?"

"I'm new at this—motherhood, life, everything. You seem to be as well. What if we do it together?"

That was all it took. And while Isobel and Claire got used to one another and to running the house together through a long, not entirely painful process of trial and error, Tom and Matthew, only a year apart in age, loved one another immediately.

Claire had misgivings about allowing her son to play in the nursery with Matthew, and expressed them to Isobel, but both she and her husband, Reginald, insisted that Matthew's nanny was perfectly capable of looking after both boys. Isobel confided to Claire that complications arising from Matthew's birth had rendered her unable to bare more children. The presence of little Tommy in the lives of Matthew and Reginald offered a comfort that her own body was no longer capable of giving them. Claire was glad to be able to provide the family with something beyond her faithful service after the chance they had taken on her, but it wasn't until a few years later that she would know the true depth of their generosity.

Tom was four and Matthew was five, and the nanny had started teaching them their numbers and letters in anticipation of Matthew starting school the following year. One evening, she stepped into the parlor, where Reginald and Isobel were reading before dinner.

"Dr. and Mrs. Crawley, may I have a word?"

"Certainly," Isobel said putting down her book.

"As you know, I've been starting to teach the boys a bit to get young Matthew ready for school."

"Is everything going all right with him? Reginald asked.

"Oh, yes, he's doing quite well for his age."

"Is Tommy having trouble?" Isobel asked, with concern.

"Not at all! Actually, it's quite the opposite." She paused, as if looking for the best way to explain herself. Finally, she said, "I think it would be best if I showed you."

The three walked into the nursery. Matthew was sitting in the middle of the room playing with his toy train. Four-year old Tommy was sitting near by with a book of Aesop's Fables on his lap reading it aloud. His words were at times unsteady, but they were the words on the page. And he wasn't just reciting them. He was telling Matthew a story.

"I went through the letters and sounds with them," the nanny whispered, "and before I knew it, he'd picked it up, well . . . quite like _magic_. I've never had a child learn reading so naturally."

Realizing that he was being watched, Tommy stopped. Matthew turned to him from his train, and quickly ordered, "Keep going!"

Reginald sat down next to the little boy. "Do you like reading, Tommy?"

He nodded.

"Do you think you would like to go to school next year, like Matthew?"

He nodded again.

"And do you think that someday you'd like to go to university?"

"What's that?"

"Someplace where people go so they can be very clever. Would you like that?"

He smiled and nodded vigorously.

"Well, keep reading for yourself and Matthew now, and I'll help you with that when the time comes, all right?"

"All right."

Reginald stood up and placed a kiss of each of the boy's heads. Then with a smile on his face, he turned to his wife and said, "Let's go tell his mother."

They interrupted Claire as she and her kitchen maid were putting the finishing touches on dinner, and she momentarily wondered whether her son had broken some valuable trinket upstairs. After she'd directed them to the small office she kept next to the kitchen, Reginald declared his intention to see to Tom's education. Such was Claire's joy and gratitude that it took them a full quarter of an hour to get her to stop crying.

Isobel smiled at the memory. Reginald's profound generosity was but one of the many virtues of her husband's that she loved so much. She wondered now what he would think about the young men Matthew and Tom had become, what advice he'd give them at this juncture in their lives. He'd be tickled, no doubt, about Matthew someday being an earl, given how often he liked to jokingly boast about his noble blood. He'd enjoy debating with Tom about his populist politics. He'd be proud of their young but thriving practice. He'd be proud of the father he'd been to them both.

**XXX**

Further along on the train, in the dining car, Matthew and Tom were catching up on how Tom had spent the day in London while Matthew was discussing his future with Robert Crawley.

"So you didn't make it to the British Museum, after all?" Matthew asked, setting his teacup down.

"That had been my intention, but when I went to deliver the parcel Finch gave me for his sister, her husband mentioned his garage business and asked if I wanted to come have a look. He's been telling Finch about it in his letters so Finch can open his own garage in Manchester as a side business. Anyway, he sees to cars for several well-to-do families in town, and he was working on a 1910 Renault when I arrived. It was beauty. He let me stay and tinker with it alongside him the rest of the day."

"Weren't you bored after a while?"

"Not at all. It was quite fun." Tom paused for a moment. "I don't know if I've ever said this to you but I often wonder what I might have done with my life if your father hadn't paid for my studies. I think being a mechanic or a chauffer would have suited me quite well."

"The most well-read chauffer in town, no doubt," Matthew said with a smile.

"Indeed." Tom took a sip of his tea, then changed the subject to the meeting that had been the purpose of the trip. "So how did it go with Lord Grantham?"

"Well, I think. He's a nice man and said he remembered meeting me when I was a child. Apparently, he and the old man corresponded years back, when the hospital in the village had expanded and they'd considered bringing on another doctor. He offered father the position, but nothing ever came of it."

"Really? Did you know?"

"No, but mother did say that they had discussed it. She said they had often talked about moving to the country eventually, but at the time of the offer, they decided to wait until we were out of university and settled. But then father died and since then she hasn't given it much thought. I think she would enjoy the move now, though I doubt she would say it, lest she feel like she's pressuring me."

"So you are considering it, then?"

"I'm not sure. I'm not earl yet, so my life, in actuality doesn't have to change until Robert dies, except . . ."

"Except what?"

"Well, I could get involved in the running of the estate and the big house, seeing as it's in need of financial rescuing and I have the resources to do it."

"How did Lord Grantham know about your money from the Swires?"

"I'm sure he made some inquiries about me before contacting me. It wouldn't be difficult to find out."

"And he doesn't have his own fortune?" Tom asked.

"It's a bit complicated. He made some bad investments and lost a not insignificant sum, it seems, and the running of the house and the farms takes a great deal of resources, according to him. He and his wife opted to downsize and reserve what they had for their daughter's marriages."

"The thinking being that if he can't leave them anything, he might as well see that they're married well?"

"That's about right. It seems silly, I suppose, but it's understandable."

"I wouldn't say there's anything silly in trying to provide for your children," Tom said, "but if you're asking about the absurd expense of the rituals by which the aristocracy pair off their children, that's a separate question entirely."

"No coming out balls for you, then?" Matthew joked.

"God, no. Can you imagine me at such an event?"

"I can, as it happens, and having been to one myself, I dare say you would rather enjoy yourself."

Tom rolled his eyes. "Back to the point. The earl wants you to rescue the estate?"

"He didn't say he expected me too, only that the opportunity is there. He chose not sell Downton Abbey with the hope that a future earl might have the money to reopen it."

"How long has it been shuttered?"

"A year. The family has been living in a smaller house further north, Downton Place, but they don't have as much contact with the village, which has suffered as a result."

"How so?"

"Well, having lost its primary patrons, the hospital is on the verge of closing. That's probably the worst of it. Some of the shops have shuttered and many of the tenants who worked the farms have gone to London for factory work."

Tom thought quietly for a moment. "It's a sad state of affairs, but indicative of what happens when the masses are forced to subsist on the whims of the few—a select few who have no profession, only a pool of wealth and an appetite for the frivolities that deplete it most quickly. Perhaps if the land had been theirs to begin with they would have felt more personally invested in it and sought out the means to work it for themselves."

Matthew sighed. "You're not wrong, but such is the world we live in, and what's happened at Downton. Mother is keen on visiting to see if anything can be done for the hospital."

"Do you really think you could save it?"

"Robert believes it's worth doing. Men like him—and I know you don't approve of their lifestyle, but nevertheless—at least some of his station take the responsibility of providing employment and patronage for the county they preside over seriously. He feels he's fallen down on his duty."

Tom asked the next question carefully, knowing that Matthew was still processing everything and had not yet come up with an answer. "Do you think you could make it _your _duty?"

"I'm not sure. If I did, I think things would have to change, like taking advantage of modernity to make the estate self-sustaining, and do more to really help those who depend on it, not just get them from one season to the next."

"Sounds like you're closer to the decision than I thought," Tom said with a smile.

"I'm not there yet." He added with a smirk, "Besides, someday you're going to be off running a revolution. I need something interesting to do—even if it puts me at odds with your principles."

Tom laughed. "My principles really all boil down to one thing—whether you are a man or a woman, the circumstances into which you are born shouldn't determine how the rest of your life unfolds. Do you disagree with that?"

Matthew smiled. "No."

"Neither did your father. I am proof of that. Matthew, you were conceived and raised by two of the kindest, most fair-minded people God has made. If you follow your own judgment, then you'll have done right by anyone who depends on Downton thriving. As for my thoughts on the aristocracy, if the likes of you and Aunt Isobel are going to join its ranks, then it can't be all bad."

With that Tom stood and said, "I'll go check on her while you think things over."

"Tom," Matthew called out. "Would you come with us, if we made the move to Yorkshire?"

"Well, I'd have to," he said with a smile. "Mrs. Landry would kill me inside of a week without you to fend her off."

Matthew smiled widely, glad to know that whatever decision he came to, his hodgepodge family would remain in tact.

**XXX**

**Two weeks later**

Cora and Violet were having tea on the grounds of Downton Place, discussing how the past season had gone for Mary and Edith when they saw Robert coming toward them from the house. He seemed agitated, but as he approached, they saw that he was smiling.

"Whatever is the matter, Robert?" Cora asked.

"I've just heard from Matthew. He's agreed to save Downton."


	6. Chapter 6

_Finally, they meet! _

_OK, we've arrived at the point where series 1, episode 2 starts, and I wanted to point out a few things before we go on. _

_Robert is not in this chapter, but something to keep in mind, in this story he will have been deeply affected by the loss of Downton and what he sees as his failure. It was a HUMBLING experience in every sense of that word. That doesn't mean his snobbery won't come out in some areas, but his pride has been weakened considerably and that will play out in his relationships and the role he plays in this story. _

_Also, watching the second episode again, I remembered how much Matthew intended to resist becoming a true aristocrat—he was actually kind of petulant about it. In this story, he is going in willingly and with a purpose, but he is still a bit skeptical about his change in status. His dynamic with Mary will be VERY different, and how they play out will affect Sybil and Tom in very important ways._

_As much as I love to laugh at Moseley on the show, he will be an entirely different person in this story primarily because I need him to be someone who will not judge Isobel and Matthew for treating Tom as a member of the family, and I believe Moseley as we know him (and Carson) absolutely would. On the show, downstairs staff for both families all gossip amongst themselves, but because of the distance between Downton Place and Crawley House, the Crawley House staff will be isolated from that at first. I point it out because it will be important down the line. _

_OK, enough from me, here we go . . ._

* * *

**August 1912**

"It was kind of Lord Grantham to send the motor, even if it didn't arrive on time," Isobel said as she and Matthew stood on the train platform waiting. The journey to Downton from Manchester had been a long one, and she was eager to start on the last leg.

"I had told him it wouldn't be necessary, but he insisted," said Matthew.

"Have you two discussed your plans for the estate yet?" She asked.

"Not in detail, I'm afraid. It's likely he'll have some objections to what I'd like to do."

"I know men like him tend to cling to traditions beyond their usefulness, but remember that he sees all of this as his heritage and he may have experiences that you could learn from. Don't dismiss his methods or manners outright."

"If the point you're making is that their niceties have to be observed, then I'll tell you that in that respect, as surprising as it may be to you, I land on Tom's side of the argument." Matthew paused, then added a firm tone. "I have made an investment here, and I will see to it as I see fit. But I won't let them change me."

"Why would they want to?"

"I've come into a vast sum of money, but I remain a middle class lawyer, son of a middle class doctor."

"_Upper_ middle class," Isobel retorted.

Matthew rolled his eyes. "Nevertheless, they want us to come into _their _world, and so we shall, but even in so doing I have to be myself. I'll be of no use to anyone if I can't be myself."

Isobel sighed. "And yourself you will be. And so shall Tom—don't doubt he will get this same speech from me."

"And what speech is that?" Matthew asked with a smirk.

"That these people will have the expectation that we will not know how to behave, an expectation that I intend to confound. If they are to dislike us, I prefer it be over important things, like our opinions or our interests, not merely because they see our position in the social order so obviously written into our behavior. It is most certainly _not_."

Matthew smiled. "You make a good point."

"Matthew, Lord Grantham is pleased that Downton Abbey will be reopened in due course, and that the estate will survive his mismanagement of it thanks to you. You said so yourself. Why must you put up your guard like this? We've arrived at a new life, a new experience—don't close yourself off to the opportunities it presents, regardless of how they may come."

"I won't, and thank you."

After a few more minutes of waiting, Mr. Pratt arrived with the car. "Begging your pardon mum, I've been having some trouble with the motor today. Stopped on me on the way."

"No bother at all. What is your name?" Isobel asked.

"Stewart Pratt, mum. I've been with the Crawleys for many years. It's an honor to meet his lordship's heir."

"Thank you," Matthew said. The deferential treatment was definitely something that would require getting used to. "This is my mother, Mrs. Isobel Crawley."

Isobel smiled at him. "We appreciate this so very much."

"It's no bother at all. I was bringing Lady Mary, Lady Edith and Lady Sybil into the village anyway. They plan on stopping at Crawley House to say hello. I shall meet them there for the journey home."

"That's wonderful," Isobel said, already looking forward to it.

"I'll just see to the luggage then, and we'll be on our way."

Pratt loaded the bags and they were quickly on their way. The two looked intently out the windows as they made their way through the small village to their new home, Crawley House.

"Has Tom shared any news of your new job?"

"Not much more than to say he doesn't like having to work for someone else after being his own boss," Matthew said.

"Oh, you'll have your practice back up in due time. I do think it was wise to start with an established partnership first."

"He said Mrs. Branson is quite happy with a larger kitchen."

Isobel laughed. "I will not miss her complaints on that score. I am glad he decided to accompany her when she came to get the house ready. She can be quite skittish when it comes to new things."

Just as Isobel finished speaking, Mrs. Branson and her son, along with Ivy, their maid, were visible just outside their new home. Standing with them was a tall, dour looking man in what Isobel guessed was a butler's livery.

As soon as they had stepped out, Tom came forward to greet them, giving Isobel a kiss on the cheek.

"I trust your journey was pleasant?" he said.

"Oh, yes," Isobel replied. "Though we are happy to have finally arrived." Turning to Claire, she said, "I'm told the kitchens are to your liking."

"Very much. More space than we need, I dare say, but we've already found use for most of it." Claire then looked at Tom and jerked her head toward the man next to her.

"Right." Tom turned back to the unknown man, who stepped forward to greet them as well. "This is Moseley, our butler and valet."

Matthew couldn't help but smile at Tom's eye roll when he got to the man's title.

"Well, how do you do, Moseley? May I introduce ourselves, I am Mrs. Crawley, and this is my son, Mr. Matthew Crawley."

He gave a slight bow and said, "I'll just give Mr. Pratt a hand with the cases."

"Thank you," Isobel said, then turning to Pratt, asked "Pratt, when did you say the young ladies would be coming by?"

"At about 4 o'clock, mum."

Matthew looked at his pocket watch and said, "That's less than a quarter of an hour."

"Heavens! Mrs. Branson, Ivy, we'll have to wait for the grand tour, but I trust you've done well setting the house up. Ivy, we'll have the earl's daughters here to say hello shortly, so please prepare some tea while I freshen up. You should as well, Matthew."

And with that she scurried into the house to prepare for their visitors. Ivy was about to follow her, when Claire caught her by the arm.

"Silly girl, I've been telling you for a week, here, we've got our own entrance," she said, pulling her toward the service entrance in the back, where Mosely and Pratt were currently taking the luggage. Then she added in a whisper, "Or do you want _him _to take your head off again?"

"I don't know why we need him. We did fine at the old house on our own."

"We're in a whole new world here, my dear. Best get used to it."

Still standing at the front of the house with Tom, Matthew looked over his new home.

"It's certainly bigger than the old place."

"Indeed," Tom agreed.

"So about Moseley."

"Ugh, don't get me started. He positively doesn't know what to do with me."

"Has he given you trouble, you know, for sleeping upstairs?"

"Oh, no. He's nothing if not perfectly cordial, and once he read the letter from Aunt Isobel explaining the arrangement, he's managed to control his bewilderment whenever he sees me in the kitchens with mam."

"Is he really going to be our _valet_?

"Not _ours_, yours," Tom said with a laugh. "Or did you honestly expect I was going to let another man dress me? It's bad enough Aunt Isobel forced me to buy a set of tails."

"Well, he's not going to dress me either."

"He seems a bit of a stubborn old bloke. He's bound to beat one of us into submission before long."

Matthew rolled his eyes. "We'll see about that."

"You should get inside. The earl's daughters will be here soon."

"Can we please not start with that again?"

Tom grinned. "You might as well put your best foot forward. One of them is bound to fall in love at first sight."

Matthew moved toward the door but called over his shoulder, "You seem to be forgetting, I'm not the only bachelor who lives in this house."

"You're the only one worth marrying."

As Matthew opened the front door, he saw Pratt coming back from the back of the house.

"Pratt, Tom here has a bit of knowledge about cars. He might help you with the trouble you were having earlier." Then, turning to Tom, added, "Instead of trying to play matchmaker why don't you make yourself useful."

**XXX**

As Matthew and his mother were arriving at Crawley House, the three Crawley sisters were making their way there from the dressmaker in the village, where Pratt had left them before going to pick up Matthew and his mother.

Months had passed since James and Patrick perished, but given everything that had happened since, it felt as if it had all gone by very quickly. Sybil remembered clearly the morning the news came, the image of her father's crestfallen face as he read a telegram the girls would not know the contents of until later that day still ingrained in her mind. Then how quickly he ran out of the dining room after reading it. She was, it seemed, doomed to most easily recall her father's lowest moments among her memories of him.

The family took the news hard, not just for the loss of their loved ones, of course, but because their lives were, once again, being upended. Mary and Edith were their usual selves regarding the loss of Patrick. The former putting on a more stoic front than what was beneath, the latter a more emotional one than was necessary. Sybil did not begrudge Edith her grief. On the contrary, she was glad that Edith allowed herself to mourn properly and did not like Mary's insinuations that Edith was making a show of things and was not sincere in her loss. But Sybil also knew that in the interplay that had developed between her sisters, Edith wanted to prove to the rest of her family which of them truly loved Patrick and which was only using him. Sybil did not like this because she did not believe Mary to be as unfeeling as Edith tried to portray her. Being pulled between them was becoming an increasingly difficult proposition. Without Gwen to confide in, Sybil believed she might have gone mad.

But even before the grief had subsided, the news of the new heir became the talk of the family. Cora and Violet entreated Robert to break the entail that tied the title to the estate and to what remained of Cora's money, so Mary would at least be left with something as well as having the option to sell or do with the estate as she would when the time came. But Robert wouldn't act until he knew more about Matthew.

If her father's lack of action on her behalf affected her in any way, Mary hadn't let it show. Edith wondered aloud why her mother and grandmother would bother going such trouble for something that affected only one of the three. Both she and Sybil would be expected to find their position through a favorable marriage, she routinely asked, why was that fate not good enough for Mary? Sybil, as was her usual way, said little. More and more as she got older, she felt the inclination to speak and add her opinions to whatever conversations were taking place, but more often than not she refrained, preferring instead to observe those around her.

And when the season came, she remained peacefully alone at the house. She re-read her favorite books, took long walks and helped Gwen practice her typing now that they'd successfully sneaked the typewriter into her room and Gwen had started her secretarial correspondence course. July brought the family back along with news of Matthew's fortune and the possibility that he could save the big house. The question of what that would mean, and how it would affect the family remained open.

"So when Downton Abbey is all fixed up and cleaned and open again, who is going to live in it?" Sybil asked.

"I don't know," Mary said. "Apparently, they haven't discussed it."

"Surely, they would let us back, wouldn't they?" Edith said. "After all, papa is still the earl."

"Who knows what his intentions are," Mary said.

"Papa or Matthew Crawley?" Sybil asked.

Mary sighed. "Either."

As they approached the house, they saw the back of the family motor, with Mr. Pratt standing beside it and the bonnet up. A pair of legs were sticking out from underneath the front of the car.

"Pratt, is there something wrong?" Mary asked, as Sybil and Edith walked toward the door.

"It was giving me trouble earlier, milady, on the way to the train station, but Mr. Branson here is taking care of it. We'll have it done presently."

Mary nodded and joined her sisters at the door, just as Moseley opened it.

Sybil was about to step through when she realized she was still holding her parcel from the dressmaker. "On second thought," she said to Mary and Edith, "I'll give this to Pratt to put in the motor so I don't leave it here. Go ahead inside, I'll be there in a minute."

"We'll wait," Mary said.

Sybil walked back toward the motor. She had come around to the front of it when the person who had been underneath popped up in one smooth motion.

_Blue eyes._

"Oh!" Apparently, he had not heard her approach and was startled at finding her mere inches in front of him.

_Shirtsleeves. _

Sybil was startled too. She dropped her parcel. He bent down to pick it up and handed it back to her.

_Smile._

Pratt was an older gentleman and rather heavy set. Such was Sybil's assumption regarding what a person looked like who understood cars.

"Didn't see you there. Are you all right?"

_Accent._

"Sybil!"

Mary's impatient call brought her back down to earth. Sybil took a step back, then turned to Pratt. "Pratt, would you mind holding this until we're ready to depart?" Her voice, quieter than she intended, sounded somewhat foreign to her.

"Certainly, milady," Pratt responded and took the parcel from her.

With that Sybil quickly went back up the walk to the house. Halfway to the door, unable to stop herself, she took one quick glance back. He was still looking at her. The corners of her lips turned up into a smile. As she faced Mary and Edith again and walked into the house with them, Sybil felt her blood rushing to her chest and head. She wondered how deep the blush on her cheeks was and whether her sisters would notice.


	7. Chapter 7

_Picking up right where we left off. There's a moment of M/M role reversal early in this chapter._

* * *

Mary, Edith and Sybil followed Moseley into the parlor.

"I'm afraid Mrs. Crawley and Mr. Crawley arrived from the station only minutes ago," he said. "They are upstairs changing from their traveling clothes and will be down shortly. Shall I have Ivy bring in some tea?"

"Thank you, that won't be necessary," Mary said. "We won't be staying long."

"Very good, milady." With that Moseley bowed slightly and stepped out of the room.

Sybil, as discreetly as she could, brought her hands up to her cheeks to try to stave off the color she knew would give away how quickly her heart was beating.

She was a bit annoyed at herself. She'd seen nice looking men before. Some of the boys she'd grown up with had turned out rather handsome. But none had ever materialized as if out of thin air right in front of her. The effect was disconcerting, especially to Sybil, who had always prided herself on not stooping to the silly fawning some of her friends were guilty of when around members of the opposite sex.

"Who was that with Pratt outside?" Edith asked.

"Their chauffer, I imagine," Mary responded.

"Why would they have a chauffer if they don't have a motor?" Edith retorted.

"He wasn't a chauffer," Sybil said quietly. Mary and Edith both turned to her. "Well, he wasn't wearing livery, anyway. His waistcoat appeared to be from an everyday suit." she added, looking down, hoping her blush had finally dissipated.

She wanted to scold herself. _He wasn't _that _handsome._

"I hope we don't have car trouble on the way back," Edith said.

"Me too. This will be trying enough."

"Why do you say that?" Sybil asked. "We're only inviting them to dinner."

Mary sighed. "God only knows what Mr. Crawley"—she dragged out the name and rolled her eyes as if it pained her to say it—"intends for Downton or us." Mary hated sounding so petulant, but she couldn't help it. She was about to meet the stranger whose presence would be the final nail in Patrick's coffin and the end of the dream she had shared with him to revive Downton together. Mary had acknowledged not feeling as sad as she should have in the immediate aftermath of Patrick's death, but standing in that room, about to meet the man who would replace Patrick as heir, she felt the first real pang of regret.

Frustrated, she said, "For all we know, he believes the estate entitles him to marry one of us and he plans to make his choice at first glance."

No sooner had those last words come out of Mary's mouth that Moseley had stepped back into the parlor. "Mr. Matthew Crawley."

Sybil and Edith's eyes widened and they looked at one another momentarily before casting a glance at Mary, who was, despite what she'd just said, the picture of composure. Edith's expression quickly turned into a smirk.

Matthew had heard Mary, of course, but chose to ignore her comment. It had been obviously made out of frustration—_She has to be the eldest_, he thought, _the one who lost her fiancé_—and knowing what was ahead of him with regard to the changes he had planned for the estate, he didn't want to start off on an argumentative note. Instead, he stepped forward to introduce himself.

"Lady Mary, I presume."

"Cousin Mary," she said, in a soft, even tone that betrayed neither embarrassment nor apology.

Sensing, if not outright seeing, defiance in her posture, Matthew smiled in spite of himself. He turned to the younger sisters.

"And Cousins Edith and Sybil, then?"

Both girls smiled. "It's wonderful to finally meet you," Edith said eagerly. "Papa has told us so much about you. Are you happy with the house?"

"Very much. Please sit down."

All of them did so, and Edith continued. "Did you have a pleasant trip?"

"Yes, it was comfortable and without incident."

"We're sorry to hear there was some car trouble," Edith said.

Sybil looked at her sister curiously. Edith was never one to be so effusive with strangers. Usually, she and Edith would defer to Mary when it came to talking with new people. Sybil wondered whether Edith was trying to take advantage of Mary's faux pas and hoped this did not mean that their antagonism would continue in a new tug-of-war over _this_ cousin.

"It's all right. It caused Pratt to be a few minutes late, but it really was no trouble"

"What—"

Edith stopped short upon seeing Moseley come in with Isobel behind him.

"I'm so sorry to have kept you waiting," Isobel said, with a bright smile.

All of them stood again. And this time it was Mary who spoke for the sisters.

"Not at all, Mrs. Crawley," she said.

"Isobel, please."

"We apologize for the intrusion when you've only just arrived," Mary went on, "but mama was wondering if you'd like to join us for dinner tonight, if you're not too tired."

"We'd be delighted!" Isobel said.

"Wonderful. We dine at 8 o'clock. We can send Pratt to pick you up, unless you have your own method of travel."

"If your referring to an automobile, we do not have one," Isobel said. "If you could send him, we'd appreciate it. Do sit down. Would you like some tea?"

Edith and Sybil were about to sit again when Mary responded, "Oh, we couldn't impose when you are getting settled. We'll be on our way."

And with that Mary made her way to the hall, with Edith and Sybil quickly catching up behind her. The three followed Moseley who'd stepped in front of Mary to get to the door. When he opened it, Tom, back in his suit jacket, was on the other side, about to open it himself to come back in.

"Excuse me, Mr. Branson," Moseley said, "The ladies were just leaving."

Tom stepped aside to let them pass, and Isobel came forward from behind them.

"Lady Mary, before you depart, please let me introduce Mr. Tom Branson, an old friend, quite like family. He's staying here with us."

"How do you do?" Mary said primly. "These are my sisters Lady Edith and Lady Sybil."

Tom smiled at Sybil. "I apologize if I startled you before."

Sybil smiled back, bashfully, feeling the warmness coming back to her cheeks. "It's all right. I wasn't looking where I was going."

"Will you be joining us for dinner?" Mary asked him, breaking a gaze between Tom and Sybil that both thought inappropriately long, even if no one else had noticed it.

Tom looked to Isobel. "Yes, unless a third would be too much trouble," she answered for him.

"We'll see all three of you tonight," Mary said, smiling, then turning to walk down the front path to the car. "Pratt is everything all right now?"

Pratt was already in the driver's seat with the motor running. "Yes, milady."

Tom, Isobel and Matthew followed the sisters down the path, and Tom stepped forward to open the door for them. After Mary and Edith had stepped in, Sybil took another peek at him on her way in, causing him to smile and causing her to slip on the step. He caught her by the hand and waist and helped her the rest of the way in.

"Thank you," she said quietly without daring to look at him again. After she sat down, she held the hand he had just grabbed with the other, as if trying to hold the sensation there. _Yes_, she thought to herself, _he _is_ that handsome_.

Tom stepped back as the motor pulled away.

"So it begins," Matthew said jokingly. Then he and Isobel started back inside. They were almost to the door, when Isobel turned around to see Tom still standing watching the car drive away.

"Tom, are you coming in?"

His neck whipped over to where she was. "What? Oh, no—I mean, yes." He scratched his head and laughed at himself, then followed Isobel and Matthew inside.

"I'm going up to finish unpacking," Matthew said.

Tom was about to follow him up the stairs when Isobel called him.

"Actually, Tom, if you have a moment, I'd like a word,"

"Certainly, Aunt Isobel." He followed her back into the parlor.

Moseley, who had followed them in, asked, "Shall I have Ivy serve some tea, mum?"

"Yes, please, Moseley, that would be lovely," Isobel answered, then turning to Tom said, "Let's sit down. I'm afraid what I'm about to say won't be to your liking?"

"Don't be silly. I don't think anything you could say to me could be unpleasant."

Isobel smiled. She loved him so very much.

"Did you get a set of tails, as I asked?"

He laughed. "Well, I take it back. That is an unpleasant subject. But yes, I did."

"Good. You'll need them tonight, and do ask Moseley for help if you—"

"I certainly don't need—"

"If you have trouble because I want you and Matthew to both look your best."

Tom sighed. "I don't need help."

"I don't much care about what you think you need," she said sternly, but kindly. "As I told Matthew earlier, I don't intend on giving the Robert Crawley family any reason to judge us. I do not feel beneath them in any way, and I do not want _them_ to feel as if we are. Have I been understood?"

"Yes," he said smiling. "I do not plan being an embarrassment, if that's what you're worried about."

"Oh, Tom, you could never be that."

At that moment, Ivy came in with the tea and served them both. They took a few minutes to drink in silence.

"Will there be anything else, mum?" Ivy asked.

"No, thank you, Ivy."

"Was that all?" Tom finally asked, when the young maid had left.

"No. There's something else, something that I've discussed with your mother and that she and I agree on."

Now he was curious. "What's that?"

"I know that I introduced you to the girls as a friend, but I'd like to tell the family you are the son of a cousin."

"What?"

"Tom, you are every bit the gentleman you look. In that finery tonight, you could walk into their home, call yourself a duke and none would be the wiser because you're so well spoken, intelligent and thoughtful."

Tom laughed. "I don't think there are any dukes from Ireland."

Isobel persisted. "Please listen. You have a future ahead of you that is beyond the dreams of your father and his father, and you are every bit worthy of whatever comes to you, but there are people in this world who will say that you are not because—"

"Because of my birth," he said with a sigh, looking down at his hands.

"Yes."

Looking back up at her, he said, "But Aunt Isobel, I'm not ashamed of who I am or of mam, or where I come from. If anything, I want people to know so they understand that opportunity when given freely and without judgment can change lives."

"Tom, I know you're not ashamed and neither am I ashamed of you. But I want to impress upon you how quickly some of the people who will cross your path will dismiss you—even people who work in service, as your mother—if they know something that in truth they don't have to know."

Tom sighed. "What about mam?"

"She agrees with me on this. She's been careful to only send Ivy out to the village and will be going by her maiden name. I'll have a talk with Mr. Moseley, but since he's not spoken up about our arrangement since I wrote ahead to him to explain it, I trust he will remain true to our intentions."

"Won't it be worse if I'm caught in a lie?"

"I don't expect anyone to catch you because I don't expect anyone to suspect you. Have you said anything to anyone at your job about your background?"

"No."

"Well, if anyone asks, just say you don't remember anything before you came to us, and you retained your Irish accent because we sent you there every year starting at age fifteen to complete your studies and later to go to university as it was your father's wish. "

Tom smiled. "All of that happens to be true."

"There you have it, then."

"Aunt Isobel, I'm not sure about this. May I think about it first?"

Isobel sighed. "You may. If you prefer, we can simply not say anything. Robert and his family may not even ask questions, and just assume what we want them to."

"It's not that I don't appreciate your concern—"

"I understand. I'm asking you to hide a part of yourself that makes you who you are, and it's not fair of me to do so, but we live in the world such as it is. Your mother and I want to protect you from it."

"And I appreciate that, truly."

They smiled at each other.

"Well," Isobel said, "I should have a good look at the house, finally. Why don't you rest up for tonight."

They both stood, and he watched as she left the room.

Once alone, Tom sat back down and set to wonder whether hiding a part of himself meant he was leaving it behind for good—whether it meant he would become something other than who he was.

**XXX**

Claire Branson hadn't been sure she had wanted to make the move north. She liked Manchester, had lived there now half her life. And Ireland was also still there to return to, if she wanted. But Isobel had told her the job would get easier in Yorkshire. There would be a butler—the _other _family would expect it—and she, Matthew and Tom were likely to dine with them with some frequency, giving her more nights off.

Tonight was the first such night, and here in her brand new sitting room, having ample time to write letters home to her relatives in Dublin for the first time in months, Claire decided she was glad to have come.

She had just started one to her late mother's sister, when her son's voice startled her.

"I hear you want to disown me."

She turned and saw him looking as fine as he'd ever looked, wearing clothes befitting a true gentleman—one who had been made, not born. She smiled proudly, but couldn't help but be his mother by saying, "Don't lean against that dirty door."

He stood up straight and swung his arm out. "How do I look?

She went over to him, brushed his shoulders with her hands and straightened his white bowtie. "A handsome devil, just like your father. Too handsome for your own good, as a matter of fact."

This made him smile. He liked making her proud—the thought reminded him of why he'd come down.

"So about this silly plan to hide my identity—"

"It's not _hiding_, just not letting people judge you by things that aren't their business. As soon as you tell anyone you're a housekeeper's son, they'll stop thinking of you as Mr. Tom Branson and they'll starting thinking of you as Tom, the housekeeper's son. It's not fair."

"But I want to change that—won't submitting to that ridiculous prejudice render me unable to criticize it?"

"Tommy, you have to live in this world before you can change it. If your father had known that, he might still be with us."

Tom frowned. "If he were still with us, you and I wouldn't be standing here right now. He gave us more in death than he might have in life. Will you not give him the benefit of the doubt by believing that might have been his intent all along?"

She sighed. "I wouldn't be standing here, but you might still be." She cupped his face with her hands. "Oh, my dear boy, you are so much better than the world that made you."

He pulled her into a hug. "I'm only as good as you made me."

They continued to hold each other for a long moment, not separating until they heard a soft knock on the door. It was Moseley.

"Beg your pardon, Mr. Branson, but Mr. Pratt is here."

"Thank you, Mr. Moseley, I'll be right there." He kissed Claire on the forehead and said, "I'll come down to say goodnight."

Claire followed him out of the room and stood next to Moseley as Tom headed up to leave with the family. She was about to get back to her letters when she saw a smile on Moseley's face, where there was usually a dour or blank expression.

He turned to her upon catching her watching him. "Your son, he . . . well, it's curious. When he's down here with you he calls me Mr. Moseley. Today, since they've arrived, when he's been upstairs with Mrs. Crawley or Mr. Matthew, he's called me Moseley as they do. He's not misspoken once that I've noticed."

Claire smiled. "He's lived on that line his whole life."

"Dr. Crawley, Mrs. Crawley's husband, he saw to all his needs without prejudice?"

"Treated him like his own son his entire life. I never wept for an employer like I did the day of his death."

"Did you ever worry it was all too inappropriate? That people would judge him as a social climber?"

Claire sighed. "Every day. But when someone as kind as Dr. Crawley offers you the chance to change your only son's life for the better, to give him a life outside of service, do you refuse him?"

Moseley smiled again. "I suppose not."

**XXX**

As Downton Place readied for their dinner guests, Cora was worrying about Mary.

Upon the girls' return from the village that afternoon, Edith had described the family as nice. The young men—there were two, Cora learned—were both courteous, but the visit had been too short for more of an opinion to be formed beyond superficialities.

Mary, never one to withhold her opinions when speaking to her mother, had said little. Cora knew that her daughter, despite outward appearances, felt pulled in all directions when it came to talk of the family estate. Cora was concerned about how Mary was responding to yet another stake on it.

Having seen to Sybil, as had now become their routine before dinner, and having complimented her on her choice of a pale blue frock Cora had bought for her recently but that Sybil hadn't yet worn ("It felt like the right hue for the occasion."), Cora headed to Mary's room to reassure her and gauge her mood as she finished getting ready for dinner.

"Are you almost ready, dear?" Cora asked as she walked in.

"I don't see why they have to come here at all if you're going to undo it," was Mary's response. Cora was glad to have come in, if this is how her night was going to start.

"Your father is not convinced it can be undone," Cora said.

"You'll still try."

"Your grandmother and I are going to try."

"And papa is not?"

Cora proceeded gently. "He wants Downton to be reopened, the hospital to be saved and the estate to thrive again. He believes that future is assured with Matthew's fortune. You know how your father feels about all of that."

"It's the same as I feel. We agree and somehow still don't see eye to eye."

Cora stepped forward and put her hand on her daughter's shoulder. "Mary—"

"How does a middle class solicitor come into so much money?" She asked, interrupting, not eager to discuss her father.

"Apparently, it was his fiancé's fortune. She willed it to him before she died."

Mary let out a humorless laugh. "It's funny how a woman can leave her money to a man, but not the other way around."

"Are you going to join the suffragettes to change the laws?" Cora said smiling.

"Mama, don't be ridiculous."

"Well, it's not over yet. We're trying to find a lawyer who will take it on."

Mary sighed. "Thank you. I know it will be an uphill battle, but it means something that you're trying."

"He's fighting for you in his own way."

"Let's not talk of papa."

"So you haven't told me what you thought of them."

"She's nice enough. He's . . ."

Mary didn't know what to say. She knew he'd heard her remark regarding his intentions, and she saw him smile at her when she introduced herself. It felt a little bit like behind his eyes he was laughing at her. That might have been her imagination, but she didn't like feeling not in control, and in her snide comment, in his non-reaction to it, the already unsteady ground under her feet fell further. All she had to cling to now was her position—even if it was obvious that Matthew didn't care that she was above him.

Finally, Mary turned to leave, "Let's just go down and you can see for yourself."

**XXX**

Isobel, Matthew and Tom were welcomed into the house by the entire family and staff. The family, joined by Robert's mother, the Dowager Countess of Grantham, Violet Crawley, numbered six. The service staff, without Pratt whom they'd already met, numbered nine.

Tom knew that at large country estates, like the one Matthew was intent on saving, the staff could count up to thirty. This display, despite the smaller numbers, was no less intimidating, as far as he was concerned. In the dark of the late evening, it had been hard to get a good look at the house as they approached in the car, but the inside was as luxurious as it felt imposing. Having not yet seen it, but having heard it described as much grander than Downton Place, Downton Abbey suddenly loomed very large in Tom's mind. What could that house possibly look like in comparison with this one, when this was already, in Tom's estimation, a veritable palace.

As he looked over the employees, Tom tried to picture his mother there. He supposed that for some who worked in service, a job in such a house, with such a family, was the ultimate aspiration. His mother was too loyal to the Reginald Crawleys to have ever wanted more, and even discounting what they had done for him, Tom knew that she considered her position with them as good a job as any. Tom also watched the footman, who was staring forward, expressionless, for a brief moment. He looked to be about Tom's age, so as was his habit, Tom thought about the doors in life that open or close as a result of a single action. But for one man's interest in his ability to read at a young age, he might still be standing in this very room, but in a different position altogether.

The greetings between the families were as cordial as anyone could expect given the circumstances, which was to say not overly warm but not entirely cold either. The only moment worth remembering, which Tom would relay in detail to his mother later that night, was when Isobel was introduced to the Dowager Countess.

"What should we call each other?" Isobel asked, approaching her in her usual friendly manner and raising her hand for a handshake.

"Well, we could always start with Mrs. Crawley and Lady Grantham," Violet responded, taken aback, as if Isobel's question had been an insult. Isobel's hand was ignored, but she remained smiling, as if nothing had happened.

Tom, trying very hard not to be entirely cynical about the whole exercise, couldn't help but roll his eyes at the Dowager's snobbery. Immediately after doing so, he looked around to see if anyone had noticed.

_She_ had, of course. Just his luck.

Sybil's eyes had, in fact, been on Tom since he'd walked in—_looking more handsome than any man has any business looking_, she thought—and her brow furrowed slightly when he rolled his eyes at her grandmother. Seeing her reaction, he could only respond with a grin. Seeing his grin, she looked away, pulling her lips into her mouth as if trying to stop herself from smiling.

On the way to Downton Place, discussing details about the family and what to expect, Isobel had mentioned that she was not out in society yet, which meant she was seventeen—_sixteen at the very youngest_, Tom thought. As far as he knew, of course, it was possible she was younger, but when they'd walked in, Tom, against his better judgment, had allowed himself a moment to appreciate how beautiful she looked in the pale blue dress she was wearing. That figure did not belong to a girl of fifteen.

**XXX**

Once seated for dinner, after the footman Thomas instructed Matthew on how to serve himself, Matthew was almost ready to give up on the prospect of cordiality with the family and simply deal with Robert as needed in his management of the estate. He was in the middle of silently acknowledging how right his mother had been regarding the family's prejudices as to their middle class status when Mary spoke up.

"You'll soon get used to the way things are done here," she said.

No one at the table, save perhaps Tom, would appreciate the Herculean effort it took for Matthew not to roll his eyes. "If you mean that we're accustomed to a very different life from this, then that is true."

Matthew understood and empathized with the fact that Mary was in an odd position. He was a stranger to her, and he was taking what—if the laws were rational—would be hers, but her uppity attitude was making his patience run short. He'd ignored her condescension this afternoon, but he wouldn't make a habit of it. Mary was beautiful. He couldn't deny that. Hers was the kind of beauty that she could wield as a weapon if she needed to. But he didn't like her, something about which he did not feel guilty as it was obvious she didn't like him.

Looking back and forth between them during that exchange, Sybil noticed a tension between her sister and Matthew, and told herself to say something to her about it later. In an effort to shift the tone to more neutral territory, she asked quietly, "What will you do with your time?"

But there would be no neutral territory to be found this evening.

"I found a job in Ripon," Matthew answered. "I've said I'll start next month, once we have a plan in place for the estate."

"A job?" Robert asked, incredulous.

"Tom and I have joined a partnership, you might have heard of it, Havel and Carter. They wanted to expand into industrial law though I'm afraid most of it will be wills and convenyancing."

"You're a solicitor as well?" Sybil asked Tom.

He nodded. "I am."

"Tom and Matthew had opened their own practice in Manchester. It was doing quite well," Isobel put in.

"Why not do that here?" Cora asked.

"Given Matthew's new role with your family," Tom said, "we thought it best to wait. It takes a significant effort to start on your own, especially somewhere new."

"It was a lucky break that the partnership was able to take us both on," Matthew added.

"But what about the estate?" Robert asked.

"I believe I've set aside enough time to get things moving and have my plan in place. Once it is, I am confident I'll have the time. There are plenty of hours in the day, and, of course, I'll have the weekend."

"We'll discuss it later. We shouldn't involve the ladies," Robert said.

Tom looked at Robert skeptically and sighed, in a manner he hoped was not obvious to everyone else. He knew such attitudes among men like Robert existed, and he was keen for an argument—wasn't he always—but he had made a promise to himself that he would not bring up his politics tonight, in order not to make Isobel worry over their acceptance of him. Now, though, given the turn of the conversation, he was coming dangerously close to breaking that promise.

Then, the Dowager pushed him over the edge.

"What is a weekend?"

His sigh, Tom was sure, was audible the second time. _These people._

Ignoring the Dowager, he asked Robert, "Why _not_ involve the ladies?"

If Violet's question had silenced half the dinner party. His silenced the other half. So he went on.

"I would think that as the father of daughters you would want to take special care to prepare them for a world that is generally unforgiving toward women—even ones in your daughters' privileged position. The less we involve women in questions of business, the more we leave them vulnerable to situations like the one your daughters find themselves in now."

"And what situation is that?" Robert asked. Tom could easily tell he was trying to contain his indignation.

"They are at the mercy of whatever men choose to court them for marriage. And at Matthew's. You're lucky that Matthew, at least, is a good man."

Tom didn't bother to look around the table, guessing what the reaction to his "radical" ideas would likely be. Still, curiosity got the best of him and he ventured a glance in Sybil's direction. She was staring at him wide eyed, but even without knowing her well he could tell it was in a good way.

He eventually broke the stare, needing to take a long drink of his wine.

What he didn't notice was Cora smiling to herself. She had found her lawyer.

**XXX**

After Tom's outburst, dinner concluded more or less without incident, the conversation turning and staying on the hospital, which Isobel was keen to visit and which, everyone agreed, needed to be looked to.

At dinner's conclusion, the women moved on to the drawing room, leaving Tom and Matthew alone with Robert. It hadn't occurred to either of the young men until this moment, how isolated Robert was from other men. They were now, for whatever it was worth, his closest relatives and, if he was to accept Matthew's plan for the estate, his closest advisors.

"I apologize if I spoke out of turn at dinner, Lord Grantham," Tom said, trying, for Matthew's sake, to sound a conciliatory note. He knew how much making changes to how things were done meant to Matthew. He didn't want to undermine him in any way.

Robert took a long pull from his scotch. He set down the empty tumbler and took a deep breath. "It's not the way things are done, involving women in such matters." Then he looked at Tom and smiled, "But my track record speaks for itself, so what do I know."

Matthew lit a cigar. "Tom has some interesting political theories, but however you may feel about that, he's also the most intelligent person I know."

Tom smirked. "He means next to himself."

Robert looked back and forth the between the two. "So if you're business partners at such a young age, how long have you two known one another?"

"Tom came to live with us when he was two. I was three. I don't know life without him."

"How did you come to retain your Irish accent?" Robert asked Tom.

Tom hesitated. They were veering toward the path he had hoped to avoid. He didn't yet know how he would answer the question Isobel and his mother so feared on his behalf.

"I finished my studies, including university, in Ireland," he said finally.

"Which university?"

"Trinity College, sir."

"Dr. Crawley allowed you to go to Dublin when Cambridge and Oxford exist on English soil?" Robert asked, then added with a teasing tone. "Or were you not accepted?"

Tom smiled. "I was."

Matthew and Tom glanced at one another momentarily. "It was his father's wish that he study in Ireland," Matthew said. Tom wondered whether Isobel had had that talk with him too.

"Hard to argue with that," Robert said, smiling warmly.

The trio drank quietly for a few minutes before Robert broke the silence. "Matthew, I know we have a lot to discuss, but I have to ask, specifically, what do you plan to do with Downton Abbey?"

"That's a complicated question."

Tom smiled at Matthew. "I think what Lord Grantham means is who will live there once it's open again?"

Matthew sighed. "Honestly, Robert, I haven't thought much beyond the fact that we do need to open it again."

"Did you own this house before you moved here?" Tom asked Robert.

"Yes," Robert answered

"Was it in use?" Tom asked.

"We rented it out."

"Did the rental income equal what it cost to employ a full staff at the abbey?" Tom asked.

Robert thought for a moment. "I'd have to check with Murray, my lawyer, but now that you mention it, I think it did."

Tom looked at Matthew. "There you are."

Matthew scratched his forehead and smiled at how easily the hardest question had been answered. "Do you think you'd like to go back to Downton Abbey, Robert?"

Robert sighed. "Very much. But I won't take advantage of you, Matthew."

"You won't be taking advantage, if it makes more economic sense for you to be there than here."

"How does it make more economic sense?" Robert asked.

Tom answered. "If the family's presence in the village—and more importantly, the presence of those you employ and the estate's tenants—can help reawaken its economic vitality, and renting this house offsets the cost, it's a better proposition for you to live there and not here. Shuttered, Downton Abbey is of no use to anyone."

"But what about you?" Robert asked.

"We are more than comfortable at Crawley House," Matthew said. "I will help keep the books regarding the house's expenses, but I must say I agree with Tom. I don't see a reason for you not to be there. You are the earl still."

"Can we confirm it, the cost issue, I mean, before I tell the family?" Robert asked.

"Certainly," Matthew said.

Robert put his cigar out and stood up. "Most clever chap in the room, indeed."

Tom smiled, embarrassed.

**XXX**

It was so late when Matthew, Tom and Isobel returned to Crawley House, that Tom expected his mother had gone to sleep without waiting up for him, but walking into the kitchen, he could see the light of her candle emanating from her sitting room.

He detailed the evening for her, including sharing the news that the Robert Crawleys would soon be living much closer to the village again. Claire was happy to hear about the good impression he'd made and laughed at hearing of Isobel's relentless pleasantness in the face of the Dowager Countess's disapproving expressions.

Tom was about to stand and leave for bed when she asked, "What about the young ladies?"

Tom smirked, knowing where she was going with this. "Is this why you want me to pretend I'm not your son, so I can marry well?"

Claire rolled her eyes. "Can't I ask a simple question?"

Tom laughed. "They were nice. I didn't speak individually to any of them, to be honest."

"Are they pretty?"

"What do you think?"

Now it was Claire's turn to laugh. "Which did you think the prettiest—and don't pretend you don't have an opinion on that score, because your face is telling me that you do."

"I think it's time for you to go to bed," he said standing. He walked to the door before turning around and adding with a smile, "the youngest."


	8. Chapter 8

_Thank you everyone who has read, reviewed, followed and favorited! Now that the other fic I was working on, Physical Therapy, is complete, I plan on devoting my full attention to this one for a while. _

_Tom and Sybil's friendship begins to grow in this chapter. A note on what to expect: on the show, although Sybil loves Tom from early on (that's my take anyway), because he's a servant and the repercussions of that, she takes years to acknowledge it to herself, then even more time to acknowledge it to him and then her family. In this fic, Sybil does not immediately assume that her family will reject him outright, but that doesn't mean they marry within the year. She's still only sixteen, and it will take time for what is now just a crush to grow into admiration and then love. The same is true for him. As the de facto brother of the heir, Tom has a place in the family but he has to figure out the question of who he wants to be (and how much he wants people to know about himself) before he takes any steps forward with Sybil. _

_Also, I thought for a while about how Tom and the Robert Crawley family would address one another since he is not their cousin like Isobel and Matthew. I settled on having him call everyone by their titles, and having Robert call him Tom while Violet, Cora and the girls call him Mr. Branson to start. Eventually as they get to know him and like him, the formalities will drop away._

_Lastly, a word on how Robert sees Tom. Canon Robert is disinclined to dislike everything Tom says with regard to politics and the Ireland question because in Robert's opinion, Tom is a servant who stole a better future from his daughter. Everything is clouded by Robert's prejudice about Tom being working class and having the audacity to marry above that class. Here, at this point in the story, Robert sees Tom as a smart, well educated and polite middle class young man, and because Tom makes a good impression (by providing the plan for the family to return to Downton Abbey), Robert likes Tom and is willing to entertain Tom's opinions and even if he doesn't always agree._

_OK, sorry for the long note :) Enjoy!_

* * *

Even though the excitement of dining with Cousins Mathew and Isobel Crawley and their friend Tom Branson kept them up past their usual bedtimes, Robert and the family were up early the next day, each battling a cascade of thoughts regarding their guests from the previous evening and what their presence would mean for their lives and for the future.

Robert awoke mulling the prospect of returning to the beloved house he had lost but doing so under the auspices of Matthew's largesse, not by his own doing or merit. Going back would be an occasion of great joy, but also a reminder of his failure. And what would his role be? Robert had enjoyed talking with both Matthew and Tom, and felt confidence in their joint abilities to secure Downton's future, but would it ever mean anything to them? Robert wanted Matthew to see Downton Abbey and the whole estate as something more than merely a monetary investment. Robert and every earl before him saw Downton and its protection as their birthright, but how could Matthew be expected to treat it as such, when it had only been his for a few months, and not for the whole of his lifetime as had been true of all who had come before?

Cora was considering Mary's prospects, as well as the need first to convince Violet to agree to ask Tom Branson to take on the entail and then to convince Mr. Branson himself to oppose his dear friend. His words last night regarding the fate of their daughters had moved her. She knew Robert and Violet, staked onto tradition as they were, tended to accept the course of things without question. In this particular case, Violet was eager to act on Mary's behalf, because of Matthew's class, not because she necessarily opposed the laws that had elevated him. She certainly hadn't opposed them when they favored Patrick—whom Violet considered her equal in rank—over Mary. Neither Violet nor Robert ever talked about money with Cora or their daughters because neither had ever expected them not to have enough. Given its complications, Cora knew that whoever took on the case would have to believe the laws had done Mary a disservice in order to see it through. Maybe Tom would not want to oppose the fortunes of someone he considered a brother, but Cora had to ask. It was obvious he empathized with the underlying cause, and finding someone else who did half as passionately as he seemed to would be hard.

Lying awake in the early hours, Mary wondered whether her mother and grandmother's efforts on her behalf would yield what she hoped or merely another disappointment—either way, she didn't want to have to tolerate Matthew Crawley's presence for more time than was absolutely necessary. Losing Downton Abbey had been a crushing blow, more so for her than anyone else, because she alone believed she had not yet lived her best years there. She knew it was selfish to think the damage her father had done was done specifically to her, _but wasn't that more or less true_, she questioned. Edith and Sybil would never have presumed, as she did, that Downton was their future. She blamed her father for allowing her to think in such a way, for treating her as he might have treated an eldest son. Even after the move to Downton Place, Patrick had given her hope that the future she dreamed of might yet be, but now he was gone, and here was Matthew to clean up the mess and take Downton from her once again. She was not sure whether or not she wanted him to succeed.

Edith had thought, since Patrick's death, that she would resent the new heir upon meeting him, but she'd thought Matthew kind and handsome, with a personality made more interesting to her by his obvious disdain of Mary. Edith would have taken any opportunity to put her anger at her sister over Patrick behind her. It was exhausting to hate Mary, someone so outwardly perfect, so highly regarded by so many for no reason but her very haughtiness. But disdain was but a defense mechanism for Edith, an emotion necessary to tolerate having to exist in _her_ world. Because it was Mary's world and hers alone. Their parents, their relations, their friends, even their servants saw to that. Sybil was perhaps the only person Edith knew who was immune to it, or, at the least, who could ignore its pressures. Sybil was young, though. She had not yet been taught to be jealous. Edith wondered if, when Sybil's turn came to be presented to society, Sybil might understand what it felt like when others insinuated she did not measure up to the eldest Crawley sister. Or what it felt like when Mary herself told her outright—though Edith doubted Mary would to Sybil, if for no other reason than to antagonize Edith further. How could Edith do anything but begrudge the gifts her older sister was always throwing back in her face. Maybe Mary did not deserve Edith's ill will, _but she is always asking for it_, Edith thought. And so Edith decided that if Matthew Crawley wanted a friend in the family who would help him keep Mary in her place, Edith would be that friend.

And then there was Sybil, who did not spend a single thought that morning on Matthew Crawley. How would that have been possible when Mr. Branson had ensconced himself atop her mind and would not give his position there away no matter how hard Sybil tried. It might have been easier to dismiss him if he were merely a handsome face, but what he'd said to her father about protecting his daughters by teaching them the ways of the world had stirred something in her that she hadn't quite felt before.

Mr. Branson had reminded her of her wish to go to school to learn something with some meaning beyond what was necessary for making polite conversation, and of how often when she was younger, she'd asked her father about his time at school and university and in the military forces or merely what he was reading in the newspaper only to be dismissed out of hand. Sybil wanted to know things beyond what others believed was appropriate for her to know, but beyond the wanting, she believed it necessary for her to know more than she did. And clearly, Mr. Branson was of like mind. He was, in fact, the first such person she had ever met. It was nice enough to watch him talk animatedly with her father from across the drawing room, but despite the pleasantness of the view, more so she longed to hear what he was saying. From her vantage point, the most she had been able to discern was her father's occasional firm but amiable disagreement. Robert might not have agreed with Mr. Branson on certain things, but he seemed to like him very much—at least that had been Sybil's impression.

Sybil herself was in the process of discovering that as she grew up she did not much agree with her father's opinions and increasingly felt a desire to question what his position offered and expected of her. But whatever Sybil might disagree with her parents and family on, rare was the occasion in which she or anyone who might also disagree would profess such disagreements openly. It was a curious thing to observe someone actually do it—and eloquently, too. Sybil wondered if she would have the opportunity to ask Mr. Branson about the things he believed, to have a substantive conversation with him. But if she did, what would she, with so little real schooling, have to say that would be of any interest to him?

Hearing the clock chime, Sybil finally got up from her bed and rang her bell, hoping against hope that it was Gwen who would come up.

For the last week, as the date of the arrival of the new heir neared, Carson and the housekeeper, Mrs. Hughes, had been working the staff twice as hard as usual and offering no flexibility as to their specific duties, which meant that Anna had to see to all the girls. Sybil and Gwen hadn't had a moment to talk in several days.

It was a big change from earlier in the summer, when the family was away for the season and Sybil and Gwen had been much spoiled. Anna had been asked for the first time to travel to London with the family to help Mary and Edith, which meant Gwen was tasked with seeing after Sybil, who'd stayed behind once again. Sybil was left with no supervision other than Violet, who only summoned her to tea and dinner a few times a week. On a couple of occasions, on Gwen's days off, Sybil would take the governess cart with Gwen to the neighboring village—taking care, of course, not to let Carson or Mrs. Hughes see them together, lest Gwen be reprimanded. It was during these times that their friendship—when it could exist outside of the confines of the lady-servant relationship—truly flourished. Now, Sybil knew it was important for her to be wary of her demands on Gwen's time, given Gwen's responsibilities, but Sybil missed her nonetheless.

Sybil had just sat down to her vanity when she saw Gwen coming in on her mirror's reflection. She practically leapt out of her chair with a shout.

"Oh, Gwen, I'm so glad you're here! It feels like it's been ages since we've been able to talk."

Gwen came into the room with a big smile and the two sat down on Sybil's bed. "Anna's been so busy this week, I suggested this morning that if she wanted to spend extra time with Lady Mary, I could come in for you if you rang while she was still up with her."

"I'm so glad you did," Sybil said excitedly. "There' so much I want to tell you."

"Me as well, but I'm afraid I'm going to have to be more careful with Anna. I think she's starting to suspect something regarding my course."

"What makes you say that?" Sybil asked with concern.

"I got another parcel yesterday. Mr. Carson brought it in with the mail, and everyone saw. Then she caught me opening it in our room." After a pause, Gwen added, "I intimated that it was letters from a beau," sending both girls into a fit of giggles.

"Do you think you'll be found out?" Sybil asked after their laughter had subsided.

"I don't know whether that was enough to throw her off the scent, but either way, I do trust Anna. If I were to tell her my secret, I believe she would keep it. But enough about that! What do you think of the new heir's family?"

"I met them yesterday afternoon, actually. Mary, Edith and I went to see them at Crawley House, but we got there just as they'd arrived from the train from Manchester, so we weren't able to talk."

"Manchester, is that where they're from?"

"Yes. Both Cousin Isobel and Cousin Matthew seemed very nice, and we all had a pleasant time with them at dinner, despite—well, you saw the greetings, yourself."

Gwen laughed. "I dare say her ladyship, the Dowager Countess, didn't take too kindly to Mrs. Crawley."

"Granny doesn't take too kindly to anyone—she says it's part of her charm," Sybil said with a grin.

"But everyone got on at dinner?"

"More or less. Mary was a bit her uppity self with Cousin Matthew with regard to their position. And Thomas actually tried to give Matthew instruction on how to serve himself."

Gwen rolled her eyes. "He would. He's such a sour, self-satisfied fellow. Though I'm afraid he's not alone in his judgment. There's been a lot of talk downstairs about Mr. Crawley as to his class."

"Oh?"

"Given his status as middle-class, Mr. Carson and others think him unworthy of his lordship's title or—and please, don't repeat what I've said—"

Sybil took her friend's hands. "Gwen, you know I would never, but if you're uncomfortable—"

Gwen smiled. "No it's all right. It just . . . it doesn't speak well of us, and, well, we are allowed to speak freely downstairs."

"I'll not hold anything against anyone, I promise. Certainly not you."

"Well, some on the staff don't think him worthy our service."

"Oh my," Sybil said with a tone of surprise.

"To be fair, some spoke out of loyalty to the family, and to Lady Mary. Mr. Carson does hold her very dear to his heart."

Sybil smiled. "I don't begrudge his instinct to be protective of her prospects, but I must say I had no idea that people in the service of the upper classes could be as snobbish as the upper classes themselves."

"Oh, milady, you'll find that often they're much, much worse."

Sybil smiled. "Well, I've stolen enough of your time. I best get ready. Go on with the room, and I'll dress myself."

As Sybil picked out clothes for the day, Gwen opened the curtains and set about making the bed.

As she was pulling the sheets back, Gwen asked casually. "What did you think of the other gentleman?"

Sybil, who at that moment was stepping into her corset and skirt, took a deep breath. Of all the people in her life, Gwen was likely the only one who could see her blush and be able to understand exactly why she was regardless of the circumstance. "He was nice," she responded as nonchalantly as she could.

"And nice looking, if you don't mind my saying."

Sybil turned to look back at Gwen, who came up behind her to help with the lacings in the back, before going back to the bed. "Yes, he was definitely that, but . . ."

"But what?" Gwen asked.

Sybil slipped her blouse on. "I wish you could have heard him at dinner. He spoke quite movingly. I believe he supports women's rights. Papa was a bit scandalized." Sybil couldn't help but snicker.

"I remember Mr. Carson mentioning something about Mr. Branson speaking out of turn and having wild ideas about discussing business in front of women. He might have used the word 'insolent.' "

"It wasn't as bad as all that. In fact, I think papa rather liked Mr. Branson by the end of the evening. Him and Cousin Matthew, both."

"Well, Mr. Carson can be very traditional about that sort of thing."

"And here I thought papa was the worst."

Sybil sat down to her vanity, and Gwen came up, having finished the bed, to help her with her hair. Once it was up in a neat bun at the nape of her neck, Sybil stood to head to breakfast.

"I hope I didn't take too much of your time," she said to Gwen, who'd gone to the fireplace to clean up the ashes from last evening's fire.

"It's no bother, milady. I always enjoy our chats."

Sybil smiled. "Me too."

Sybil was about to open the door when Gwen asked her one more question.

"Would you say Mr. Branson is the most handsome man you've met?"

Sybil thought for a moment. "I'm not sure. But he's the cleverest, by far. I rather like that about him."

At the sound of the door closing behind Sybil, Gwen laughed to herself. It might not be noticeable to everyone else yet, but as her best friend, Gwen could see it easily. Lady Sybil was keen on Mr. Branson.

**XXX**

Sybil could hear Mary and Edith talking with their father when she walked into breakfast.

"Good morning, everyone," Sybil said cheerfully, going over to give Robert a kiss on the cheek before walking over to Carson for a plate.

"You're in good spirits this morning," Robert said.

"I enjoyed myself last night," Sybil said as she served herself. "It's been some time since we've met new friends."

"I'd be happy never to have met them," Mary said sourly.

Her sister's response gave Sybil a start. She turned from the buffet table toward Mary. "I'm sorry, that was insensitive," she said quietly. "I didn't mean I preferred their company to . . . I just . . ."

Mary smiled apologetically. "Darling, I know you didn't. I didn't mean to be short with you."

Sybil smiled back and went back to finish serving herself, before sitting down.

"Mary is a bit put out seeing as papa will be showing Cousin Matthew and Mr. Branson the estate this morning," Edith said.

"I just don't see why the rush," Mary said. "The question of the entail still hasn't been settled."

"It's been settled, just not to your or your mother's liking," Robert said without looking up from his newspaper.

Sybil could see Mary bristle at her father's words. Sybil was about to say something when Thomas walked in.

"Mr. Crawley and Mr. Branson are in the entrance hall for you, milord. As are Mr. Murray and Mr. Jarvis."

"Good," Robert said folding up his newspaper and standing up. "Has Pratt brought the car around?"

"I believe he is on his way."

"Thank you, Thomas. Carson, please let her ladyship know they'll be joining us for luncheon."

"Very good, milord."

The girls watched as their father left without another word.

"Why are you so against him?" Sybil asked Mary.

"He is against me, or didn't you just witness," Mary replied.

"Papa is not against you, the laws are, but I meant Cousin Matthew. Why don't you like him? "

"Aside from the fact that he's planning to steal our inheritance."

"_Your _inheritance," Edith said pointedly. "It makes no difference to Sybil and me. We won't inherit whatever happens."

Mary put her napkin down as if to stand. "He isn't one of us."

Sybil rolled her eyes. "Cousin Freddy is studying for the bar, and so is Vivien MacDonald!"

"At Lincoln's Inn, not sitting at a dirty little desk in Ripon," Mary replied. "Besides his father was a doctor."

"There's nothing wrong with doctors," Sybil insisted. "We all need doctors."

Mary sighed with exasperation. "We all need sweepers and stable hands, it doesn't mean we have to dine with them."

At Mary's words, Sybil stood abruptly, having barely started her breakfast. "I've left something upstairs excuse me."

A bewildered Mary watched Sybil hurry out of the room, and when her eyes landed on Edith, sitting across from her, she saw a knowing expression on her younger sister's face. "What?"

"Does it ever occur to you that the palace you live in inside your head is too fancy to welcome anyone but you?" With that Edith stood and left Mary there alone.

Mary didn't know how long she'd been sitting there when Carson came up behind her and asked quietly, "Are you finished, milady?"

"What—oh, yes." She stood up to give Carson room to clear her plate. She moved to leave the breakfast table, when she heard him softly clear his throat. "Was there something else, Carson?"

"If I may, milady, Lady Sybil has a tender heart."

Mary smiled. "She does."

"Too tender perhaps to understand the realities of the world, as you and I do, and what propriety requires of us to live in it. "

"Thank you, Carson."

Mary took her leave and made her way up to Sybil's room, where she found her sister at one of her windows staring out onto the grounds.

Without turning around, but having heard Mary walk in, Sybil said, "What if I were to marry a middle class lawyer, would you ever deign to dine with us?"

Mary came up behind Sybil and put her hand on her shoulder. "Oh, darling, don't worry about such things. Once you're out, you'll marry best of all of us."

"Don't be ridiculous," Sybil said, shrugging off her sister's hand.

"Look, I know that you don't believe you'll have the same chances as Edith and I did during our seasons, giving our lesser state currently, but—"

Sybil turned to face her sister. "Is that what you think this is about—that I'm worried about my prospects?! Mary, look around! Can you explain to me what about our life now is so different from what it was at Downton Abbey? Or what makes someone less worthy of us because they have a profession—a good and honorable one?"

Mary sighed. "Sybil, you don't understand—"

"No, I don't understand. I don't understand why you are putting on all these silly airs when you know perfectly well who our mother's father was."

"Sybil—"

"And I don't understand why you insist on pretending your attitude toward Cousin Matthew is anything but an expression of grief." Sybil took her sister's hands into her on and her voice softened. "Your chance to be mistress of Downton is gone, and you have chosen to blame Matthew but it is not his fault. He was born into this situation, just as the men who work at our stables have no better prospects because they were born into theirs. Stop grieving the life that is no longer yours and grieve the _man_. Allow yourself to miss Patrick, please."

Mary pulled her hands away from Sybil and turned away. And it wasn't until her shoulders started to shake that Sybil could tell she was crying, _finally_, for the cousin, the love she had lost. Sybil leaned against her sisters back and put her arms around her to offer comfort.

**XXX**

Some time later, Mary having calmed and left to go lie down with a sort of peace having been made between at least these two sisters, Sybil made her way to the library. She walked straight to the bookcase in the corner nearest to the door and stopped directly in front of it. After staring at it for a few minutes, Sybil sighed, underwhelmed by the selection.

"Would you like me to make a recommendation?"

A surprised Sybil gasped loudly and brought her hand to her heart, turning to see one Tom Branson smiling widely beside her, seeming quite pleased with himself.

Tom had been reviewing expenses at Downton Abbey from old ledgers Robert had left for him for the purpose of ensuring they could be covered when the family returned and Downton Place was rented out, but having more or less completed the task, he found himself a bit bored. He didn't want to intrude on the family by exploring the house. He'd looked around the library itself and was surprised by the wide range of titles on the subjects of history and politics, especially considering Robert's traditionalist leanings. A short time ago, he'd sat back down to check his work when he heard someone walk in. He practically lit up when he saw that it was Sybil.

"Do you enjoy startling me?" Sybil asked, brow furrowed, hoping she did not look as flushed as she felt.

"The first time was quite by accident. I admit this was deliberate, and since you ask, I did enjoy it, yes," he said with an impish smile, moving to stand next to her, also facing the bookcase.

Sybil's brow remained furrowed, but the corners of her lips curved upward. "I thought you were touring the estate with papa?"

"With his lordship, Matthew, Murray and Jarvis all present, there was no room in the motor for all of us, seeing as they were going to pick up a tenant on the way. As the least essential member of the party, I volunteered to stay behind."

"Have you been here alone the whole time?"

"The footman came in with some tea, but other than that, yes. I was looking over some of your father's old papers at his request, so the solitude was helpful."

"Does papa need legal help?"

"Accounting help," Tom said with a smile.

"So you're a jack of all trades."

"And a master of none."

The pair was content to look at one another for a few silent minutes. This being the first opportunity each had to study the other up close.

Eventually, Tom turned back to the bookcase and asked, "So do you want one?"

"One what?"

"A suggestion about what to read. I assume that's why you're here."

"I've read them all already. I was just looking them over to see if any here merited re-reading."

"You've read all these books?" Tom asked turning to the rest of the library behind them.

Sybil's eyes widened. "Goodness, no! Just the ones on this shelf, here, where the fiction and poetry are kept."

"Do you not have a taste for nonfiction?"

"More like I don't have a mind for it."

"What do you mean?"

"My governess left me a year ago, and I haven't had any proper schooling. The reading of them is likely more than I am capable of."

Tom looked at her in a way that Sybil thought she could feel down to her toes. "I doubt that," he whispered.

He let another moment pass before he added in his normal tone of voice, "I had a very good education, and I can tell you that there's little more to university than reading books and talking about them with like minded people. The books are obviously at your disposal. This library is an education onto itself. You just need someone to make conversation with."

Sybil wondered if he would offer himself for the task. She had just about gathered the courage to ask, when he turned back to the bookcase they were still standing in front of.

"Reading all of these is no small feat. May I venture a guess as to your favorite?"

Sybil gestured for him to go ahead. He made a bit of a spectacle of perusing the titles, turning toward her to see if her reactions offered any hint. As she watched him, Sybil tried to contain her laughter. Finally, he settled on one, pulled it out of its spot and handed it to her. It was Wuthering Heights.

Sybil took it with a smile and flipped through the pages. "You must think me something of a silly romantic girl if you think I favor the heady melodrama of Catherine and Heathcliff." Handing it back to him, she said with a smile, "Of the Brontë sisters, I prefer Charlotte."

Tom put it back on its spot on the shelf. "Well, in my defense, I've known you for less a day."

"It's not a terribly bad guess given the circumstances."

"So what is your favorite?"

"Give it some time, and see if you can spot it accurately when you get to know me better."

Tom smiled at the prospect of many more conversations with her. "So what will it be, then?"

Sybil sighed, looking over the shelves. "I'm not sure. The choices have seemed a bit lacking of late."

"Lacking? There are hundreds of books in this room."

Sybil rolled her eyes at his teasing. "As to quality not quantity—well, not quality so much as variety."

"Variety?"

"Nothing here veers away from what you'd expect. There's nothing . . . unconventional."

"So that's what you're after?"

"I'd settle for something I've not read before."

"Well, in that case . . ." Tom put his hands on Sybil's shoulders and turned her to face away from the bookcase that held everything she knew and toward the rest of the library and everything she didn't. Standing behind her, he said, "The world awaits, Lady Sybil. Best get started."

She looked over her shoulder at him in wonder. Tom tapped her shoulders with his hands one more time and went back to the desk. "And when you're ready to discuss what you've picked, let me know."

Not a moment later, Edith walked by the entrance to the library.

"Sybil! There you are."

Sybil turned her head to see her sister at the door. "Here I am."

Edith walked in. "Oh, Mr. Branson, you're here."

"Yes, I stayed behind to do some work for his lordship," Tom said standing again with Edith's entrance.

"Do you need anything?" Edith asked.

"No, I'm fine, thank you."

Edith turned to Sybil. "Do you fancy a walk? I wanted to go out of doors for a bit and thought some company might be nice."

Sybil smiled. "Sure."

With Sybil and Edith gone, Tom sank back into the chair with a sigh. He scratched his head wondering what kind of spell it was he was cast under in her presence. He wondered also why exactly it was that he had offered to stay behind, not daring to admit that the reason might have just left the room.

**XXX**

"He's an odd fellow, don't you think?" Edith asked, once she and Sybil were on the path around the grounds.

"Who, Mr. Branson?"

"Yes, with all that talk last night of teaching women about business."

"I found that quite interesting. I've always wished for an education of any kind."

Edith smiled, grabbing her sister's arm and linking it with her own. "Oh, dear Sybil, I'm afraid it's too late for us. We'll have to throw ourselves at the mercies of the next two dukes who come for a visit."

"Dukes? Why stop there? His majesty has two sons, does he not?"

Edith looked at her sister and the two clutched each other in a fit of laughter.

The truth was, though, the king himself couldn't have convinced Sybil to think of anyone else but the person currently sitting in the library.


	9. Chapter 9

_Thanks to everyone who has read and reviewed—and those of you who have recommended it on tumblr!_

* * *

Moseley was hovering.

Tonight was his second night with his two young masters in the house, and still they showed no signs of making use of his services as valet. So he resorted to pacing the hallway space between their bedrooms, waiting for them to finish undressing themselves so he could take their dirty clothes downstairs to be laundered.

In the week that Tom had been upstairs by himself, with Isobel and Matthew yet to arrive at Downton village, Tom had insisted on taking his laundry down himself—and saying no to every one of Moseley's offers of help. But with the mistress of the house now present, Moseley felt it necessary to assert himself and his position. He'd been asked, in the letter Isobel had sent to him ahead of her arrival, to give Mr. Branson a wide berth as he settled in, given his unique situation, but Moseley would only allow so much room. If Tom was a member of the family, Moseley would treat him as such—whether Tom liked it or not.

And he did not like it. Neither one of the young men did. It was a predicament unlike any Moseley, a butler for ten years now, had ever experienced. He was at his wits' end.

Isobel had seen him pacing a few minutes ago, when she'd come up from the kitchen after tea and a long chat with Claire in the housekeeper's sitting room.

"Is there something the matter, Moseley?"

"Not at all, mum. Just waiting for Mr. Crawley and Mr. Branson to change so I may take their day clothes to Ivy for laundering."

"They won't accept your help with anything?" she asked knowing the answer.

"I'm afraid not," he said with a patient smile.

"I wish I could tell you that this will be an easy fight, but two more stubborn young men cannot be found in the whole of England. You may use the time in some other useful way until they relent. I will not think you are shirking your duties."

"Thank you, mum."

She proceeded to her room at the end of the hall, and Moseley continued with his pacing.

Moseley found Isobel a kind employer who ran her home with a steady hand. He'd worked for a widow before and knew that the absence of a husband caused some women to come to depend on others, especially when advanced in age, but Isobel showed no sign of softness in that regard. He was glad for it, and it served her well considering the untraditional nature of the family of which she was matriarch. Only a woman of strong conviction could lead such a clan with both discretion and disregard to what others might say. He was glad, too, that he and not some other, more judgmental person had been hired to serve them.

Others of his profession would have resigned upon learning that they'd be working for the child of a servant. It had been a shocking revelation to Moseley, but he would not walk away. He was the son of a butler and had once longed to step away from the family business. He eventually submitted to it, having found no other recourse but the army—and what he believed would be certain death as a member of the infantry, where the working class recruits were invariably assigned.

He had not and would never meet Dr. Reginald Crawley, the man who had generously offered Tom the alternative Moseley had not been given, but having heard his story, Moseley concluded that Dr. Crawley's memory merited respect. Moseley resolved to serve with dignity Reginald's two sons, the first natural, the second adopted. Even if those sons would not submit to his help without a fight.

The "fight" had started in earnest that afternoon.

Cora and Violet had stopped by to visit Isobel. While Tom had gone to his office in Ripon after luncheon at Downton Place, Matthew returned home and, when the guests arrived later that day, joined them for tea.

Moseley felt like a useless fop, walking a pace behind Matthew, trying to anticipate his needs as a butler should, but merely getting in the way of a man who seemed pleased to do everything himself and irritated that anyone should try to help him.

Recalling the experience, and the faces of Lady Grantham and the Dowager Countess as they watched, understanding that in their minds the servant would always be at fault, Moseley felt a wave of irritation hit him again. Suddenly needing to do something more than just stand idly in the hallway, he knocked on Matthew's door.

"Come in."

Matthew was sitting at a small desk in the corner of the room writing and didn't bother to look up to see who it was. He'd removed his jacket, which now lay in a heap on his bed.

Moseley cleared his throat, causing Matthew to turn for a moment before going back to his writing.

"Can I help, Moseley?"

Moseley took a deep breath. "I was wondering if you needed help, sir, getting out of your suit."

Matthew finished what he was writing, put away his pen and turned to face him. "I can certainly manage getting into my bedclothes on my own."

Moseley did not move from his spot.

Matthew smiled at the man's relentlessness, then stood to walk to his wardrobe and opened it. "I know I'm a disappointment to you Moseley, but it's no good. I'll never get used to getting dressed and undressed like a doll."

"I'm only trying to help, sir."

"Of course. And if I've offended you, I apologize, but surely you have better things to do."

"This is my job, sir."

"Well, it seems a very silly occupation for a grown man."

Having realized what he'd just said and the offense he might have given, Matthew slumped and turned back to Moseley, whose expression had not changed. "I'm sorry."

"May I take your laundry, then?"

Matthew sighed. He took his pajamas into the bathroom adjacent to his room and in a few minutes returned dressed for bed and with his suit in his hands.

Moseley took the clothes from him. "Thank you, sir."

"I really am sorry."

Moseley gave a slight bow and left the room.

He'd just closed the door behind him, when across the hall, Tom's door opened. He was wearing his pajamas and a robe, his clear intention to take his own laundry downstairs.

"Mr. Branson, I'm already taking Mr. Crawley's clothes downstairs. There is certainly no use in both of us making the trip."

Tom was about to object, but upon closer inspection of Moseley's face, which carried the expression of a man who'd had a long, trying day, he relented and handed Moseley his clothes.

With a smile, Tom asked, "Are we trying your patience a bit too much?"

"Not at all, sir," Moseley replied with a tone that suggested a sliver sarcasm—as much as any dignified butler would allow himself—causing Tom to laugh.

"Good night, Moseley."

"Good night, sir."

_They are stubborn_, Moseley thought as he made his way downstairs. _But so am I._

**XXX**

The following morning, Cora was up and about early. Seeing Violet before luncheon was not her idea of starting the day off on the right foot, but Robert and Matthew were moving full steam ahead with their plans for the estate. If they were going to do something on Mary's behalf it had to be soon. There was also the fact that Mary wasn't having an easy time with the uncertainty of her position. After so many years married to Robert, Cora would never have expected that the little that was left of her money would be the point at which she and Violet would form an alliance, considering how distasteful Violet found the topic of money in general and how even more distasteful Violet had found Cora upon learning that her son had agreed to marry her for her fortune. Still, Violet had her moments, wherein grace and intuition would rule over the aristocratic upbringing. Cora was hoping one such moment would take place this morning because the further along Matthew got into his plans, the harder it would be to task Tom with working against them.

They'd been discussing the entail almost since Cora arrived. She'd been waiting for just the right moment to suggest his help.

"We're running out of options," Violet said a bit irked at not having found a solution to her liking. "Lawyers I write to only huff and puff. They echo Murray, 'Nothing can be done.' "

"Well, they don't want the bother of opposing him," Cora responded.

"Precisely," Violet said with a sigh.

"I wish Mary wasn't so confident it could be put right."

"What has she said about him?"

"About Matthew? Nothing particularly forgiving, I'm afraid."

"Who can blame her? He seems an odd young man with all that talk of weekends and jobs. And the company he keeps!"

"You mean Mr. Branson?" Cora asked, wishing he'd entered into the conversation in a more positive way. Violet was going to take convincing about Cora's plan as it was.

"Women discussing business—who ever heard of such a thing! Next, he'll be saying we should take seats in Parliament."

Cora smiled, knowingly. "Perhaps if we did, the laws would have prevented this situation."

Violet rolled her eyes. "Of course, _you _would agree with him. But that aside, there is another way out of this."

"What would that be?" Cora had a suspicion where Violet was going but was surprised she would suggest it.

"Let them be married."

"Mary and Matthew?"

"Certainly, I don't mean Mary and Mr. Branson!"

Cora laughed. "I thought you didn't like Matthew."

"So what!? I have plenty of friends I don't like."

"But would you want Mary to marry one of them?"

Violet, looking at Cora out of the corner of her eye as she lifted her tea cup, replied, "You and Robert have a noxious habit of pretending to be nicer than the rest of us. Well, Robert does, anyway. I suppose being American, you feel you must be nice to everyone, tedious as that may be."

Cora could only laugh at Violet's condescension.

"If Mary were to marry him, then all would be resolved," Violet concluded.

Cora paused. This was the moment. "I haven't entirely given up on finding a lawyer."

"Did you have someone in mind? Because as I said, we're running out of options."

"Well, we now know two more lawyers than we did a week ago," Cora said with a serene smile.

"Surely, you're not suggesting asking Matthew! Do you really think he'd argue against his own interests?"

"I was actually thinking of Mr. Branson."

"What?"

"He's a solicitor as well. Robert spoke highly of him after they came to dinner, and we've already heard him argue for the notion that women should have some rights."

"A _radical _notion."

"Are there any alternatives?"

Violet sighed. "Has it really come to this?"

"I'm presenting it as a last resort, but to be honest, I think he'd do more justice to the task than whoever might have been our first choice. I'll talk to him."

"No, let me. He'll still need some convincing. We are asking him to oppose his friend, and forgive me, Cora, but I am better at telling people to do what I want."

"I won't argue with that."

The matter settled, the two sat in silence as they finished their tea and biscuits.

After a while, Violet spoke up. "Is anything being done for Sybil's birthday?"

"Oh, yes. We'll have her favorite dinner as usual. I was thinking of inviting the Grey family—they're very fond of Sybil—and perhaps Rosamund and the MacClares if they are back in London."

"I believe they're still in the Highlands, but Rosamund would make the trip, I'm sure."

"Robert has missed his time at Duneagle the last two years."

"I don't know why. Shrimpie extended the invitation."

"I think he still feels rather humbled about the loss of Downton and has exiled himself from there as penance."

"I really wish he would just get on with it. Humility is such a trying emotion."

Cora smiled. "I wouldn't have thought you familiar with it."

"Oh, not me. I just mean it's trying when I have put up with it in someone else."

**XXX**

"You do not love the place yet."

Robert's words startled Matthew.

"Well, obviously, it's—"

"No you don't love it, but perhaps you will."

The two had taken another trip to Downton Abbey, alone this time, to explore the grounds on foot. Their visit with Murray and Jarvis the day before had been productive. Murray was as eager to modernize as Matthew was, having been privy to how perilously close the family had been to losing Downton for decades before it actually happened and having warned Robert about that prospect to no avail until it became reality. Jarvis was not so open to new ideas. He'd more or less lost his job when the family had been forced to abandon the estate and sell roughly a third of the land off, as well as several houses and cottages in the village. Robert had thought Jarvis would like to opportunity to return when what remained of the farms, most of which had lain fallow for the last year, would be made active again. But unless it involved returning to the old ways, Jarvis had not seemed much interested, which meant that Matthew's plan now included finding a new land agent.

On this visit, Robert and Matthew's discussion focused on the big house itself. It was alarming to Robert the extent to which it had fallen into disrepair in only 15 months, but he was hopeful that it could shine again. After studying the finances, Tom had given him a promising report regarding the family's possible return. The rent sought for Downton Place would have to increase from previous years in order to fully cover the costs of upkeep and staff at Downton Abbey. Tom had taken the liberty of figuring a generous raise for the servants in the process, which Robert accepted, albeit somewhat reluctantly at first, for fear it would make a renter more difficult to find. Murray, however, assured Robert that the task would be easy. Ironically, it turned out, the fact that men like Robert were losing their estates and needing to downsize created a greater demand for smaller country homes like the one the Crawleys had escaped to when crisis first hit.

Now, seeing his rightful seat in the distance, as he and Matthew walked, Robert pledged not to lose it again—which meant ensuring that Matthew would grow to love it as his own.

Matthew smiled at his entreaties. "I understand your attachment to it, Robert, and I remember it as a marvelous place, but it is just a house."

Robert sighed. "To you, perhaps. You see a million bricks that may crumble, a thousand gutters and pipes that can leak and stone that will crack at the frost."

"But you don't?"

"I see my life's work—such as it is. I failed those who came before. I failed you as heir, but you've offered your own form of rescue. I want you to come to see the worth, the importance of what you've done. I would like that to be my role going forward, if I can offer nothing else."

Matthew smiled again. "Murray mentioned yesterday that the estate had been in danger before."

Robert laughed. "Many times. My dear papa thought the balloon would go up in the 1880s."

"What saved it?"

"Cora."

The two continued walking in silence. Matthew knew that people of Robert's position often married for reasons having to do more with family politics than love. Robert had more or less had married for the sake of saving his family home, believing it part of his duty. _Duty_. Matthew thought back to the question Tom had asked him when he was still pondering whether to come to Yorkshire to rescue the estate.

_"Do you think you could make it _your _duty?"_

Matthew wasn't sure he could answer that question. At least, he wasn't sure whether he'd ever be prepared to make a marital decision such as Robert had made. Downton would be his, but the extent to which he would accept such emotional ownership of it remained uncertain in his mind.

Robert pulled him out of his reverie.

"About your scheme for buying back and restoring the estate cottages."

"You like the idea?" Matthew asked.

"Very much. I believe it will do the village much good, and might offer just compensation to the tenants who chose not to move forward with us."

"That's the hope. As we've seen with Jarvis, not everyone will like the idea of forward change."

"Why don't you come for dinner, and we'll talk about it. I know it's getting late, but we can let Isobel and Tom know, and have them bring Moseley with your clothes."

"I've been meaning to speak to you about Moseley," Matthew said, happy not to have to broach the topic himself.

"Oh?"

"Would you find me very undignified if I dispensed with his services."

"Why? Has he displeased you in some way?"

"Not at all. It's simply that he's superfluous to our style of living. Neither Tom nor I have ever used the services of a valet."

"Is that quite fair? To deprive a man of his livelihood when he's done nothing wrong?"

"I know you see it differently, but—"

"You must derive satisfaction from your work, I think, a sense of self worth."

"Certainly," Matthew said, not sure where Robert was taking his point.

"Would you really deny the same to poor old Moseley? And when you are master here is the butler to be dismissed or the footman? How many maids or kitchen staff will be allowed to stay, or must everyone be driven out?"

Matthew sighed. This hadn't been the conversation he wanted to have.

"We all have different parts to play, Matthew, and we must all be allowed to play them."

Robert continued walking, leaving Matthew to contemplate what he'd just said.

Matthew knew Tom well enough to know he would never accept the services of a valet. But Matthew was starting to realize he himself might be left with no choice in the matter.

And indeed, that evening, when Matthew sent word to the house about dinner at Downton Place, he requested that Moseley come along and with a rueful smile, submitted to his ministrations. Meeting Tom again on the landing as they headed to the drawing room before dinner, Tom greeted Matthew with a teasing grin, which, oddly, comforted Matthew. Because if he had to become an aristocrat, he figured, better that it happen without his best friend's judgment or discomfort.

"I see you've given in," Tom said.

"Yesterday, in talking to Robert about change at Downton, I offered that it was inadvisable to fight the inevitable. I decided to follow my own advice." Matthew smiled, then added, "But you should be careful."

"Why is that?"

"Because this means Moseley will be gunning for you next."

Tom rolled his eyes and laughed.

"We'll see about that."

**XXX**

Cora had been thinking about her conversation with Violet all day. Mary and Matthew. Matthew and Mary. It wasn't a terrible idea. It was a sensible solution, but would they accept it? Cora didn't presume to know Matthew well enough to know how he would react to the suggestion, but she had a feeling she knew what Mary would say. Their first interactions had not been warm, to say the least.

When time came to get ready for dinner, Cora dressed quickly, and after dismissing O'Brien, her lady's maid, headed straight for Mary's room. Cora came into the room just as Anna was leaving.

"You look very nice, my dear," Cora began.

"Thank you."

"Are you feeling better?"

"Better?"

"Anna said you were laying down most of yesterday. I assumed you weren't feeling well."

"Oh, it was just a headache."

Cora stood behind Mary, who was sitting at her vanity, and smiled at her daughter's reflection in the mirror. "I'm glad to get you alone."

Mary smirked. "That sounds ominous."

"Violet and I talked again about finding a lawyer. I think we settled on one."

"Will he take the case?"

"We haven't asked yet, but I think so."

"Good."

"But I do want you to be prepared for all possible outcomes."

Mary looked up at her mother. "Don't tell me you've lost hope."

"No. But I don't want you to feel you have to dislike Matthew."

Mary rolled her eyes and stood, while Cora took her place on the seat of the vanity, facing her daughter, who was now in front of her full length mirror.

"You disliked the idea of him," Mary said.

"That was before he came. Now he's here, I don't see any future in it. Not the way things are."

Mary was losing her patience. Her father had never been in her corner. She didn't want to lose her mother too. "I don't believe a woman can be forced to give away all her money to a distant cousin of her husband's. Not in the 20th century. It's too ludicrous for words."

"It's not as simple as that. The money isn't mine any more. It forms a part of the estate."

"Even so when a—"

"For once in your life will you please just listen!" Both Mary and Cora were surprised at the force of Cora's words. Perhaps Cora couldn't convince her daughter to like Matthew, but she at least had to convince her to consider the possibility. Cora loved her eldest daughter, but, stubbornly, Mary had been the last to accept the ramifications of the loss of the family fortune. She had to be made to see reason.

Cora took a deep breath and began again. "I believe there is an answer, which would secure your future and give you a position."

Mary knew immediately what her mother was talking about, but no. She would accept Matthew as heir if she was given no alternative, but she would not be forced to marry him. "You can't be serious."

"Just think about it."

"I don't have to think about it. Marry a man who can barely hold his knife like a gentleman?"

"Oh you exaggerate," Cora said, rolling her eyes.

Mary shook her head dismissively. "You're American. You don't understand these things. Have you mentioned this to granny? Did she laugh?"

"Why would she? It was her idea."

Mary's head whipped around to her mother, but before she could retort, there was a knock on the door. It was Sybil.

"There you are, mama."

"Oh, I'm sorry I missed you, my darling. Let's see how Gwen has done."

Sybil turned around to show off the back of her hair, which was up in a series of ornate loops, a more ambitious an effort from Gwen than usual.

"She's getting better," Mary said.

"I think so," Sybil said, pleased with her and her mother's seeming approval.

"You do look very nice my dear. I'm glad you're putting in a bit more effort."

Sybil blushed. _Is it _that _obvious?_

Mary turned to her mother. "You have two more daughters, mama, maybe they will consider your and granny's proposal."

"What proposal?" Sybil asked.

Cora gave Mary a sharp look before turning back to Sybil. "Never you mind. Now are we all ready to go down?"

"Actually, mama, I came in to see you but also for my gloves. I must have left them here last night."

"Well, hurry along. Matthew, Isobel and Mr. Branson are already downstairs."

As Cora left, Mary went to her night table where Sybil's gloves were still resting.

"What was all that about?" Sybil asked.

Mary came back over and handed her the gloves. "Mama, thinks Matthew and I should marry."

Sybil, who had started to put her gloves on, stopped short, thinking of the previous morning and her long-overdue outpouring of grief for the man Mary would have married. "What do you think of that?"

Mary sighed and sat on the bed. "I don't know. I don't want to."

"Well, you do have a choice," Sybil said coming to sit next to her.

"Do I?" Mary said with a rueful smile.

"You had a choice with Patrick."

"Patrick was different."

"Patrick wasn't middle class, you mean," Sybil said frowning.

"To start."

"Well, I do think you're unfair in putting so much interest in Matthew's position now seeing as he'll be an earl. But you really don't have to if you don't want to."

"Would you like to marry him?" Mary asked pointedly.

"Me? No!" Sybil laughed.

Mary stood and held out her hand for her sister. "He'll have to settle for Edith, then. Lord knows she'll settle for anyone."

They shared a giggle then headed downstairs. As they walked down the staircase, though, Sybil frowned slightly. It occurred to her as they headed down that in the moment that had just passed, Mary believed Sybil had objected for the same reason Mary had—an assumption that Sybil expected to marry a man of her own station. And in that regard, Mary was wrong. Sybil held no such expectation.

Sybil liked Tom. Very much. Yet she was mature enough not to have yet entertained the idea of marrying any specific person, let alone someone she'd just met, regardless of social status.

Even so, the question she'd asked Mary yesterday suddenly crept back into her mind.

_"What if I were to marry a middle class lawyer, would you ever deign to dine with us?"_

Sybil had only asked to make a point, but now she wanted to know.

And the answer was anything but clear.

* * *

_Much more S/T action in the next one, I promise :) And yes, Larry is coming!_


	10. Chapter 10

_Sorry for the lack of S/T time in the last chapter. I originally intended for that one and this one to be one chapter, but as I got to writing it, it got insanely long, which is why I broke it up. This one picks up right where we left off. I'm coming up on a busy time, so the next few chapters will not come as quickly as these two did._

_Regarding the scenes in the last one there is a method to my madness. (1) Tom has to figure out his place in Matthew's new world in a way that allows him to remain loyal to Matthew while keeping true to his socialist principles, and Moseley is a symbolic figure in that, so I wanted to flesh him out a bit. He and Tom will come to a compromise in their own way eventually, but it was important that Matthew establish himself first. (2) Violet and Cora will play key roles how the family sees/accepts Tom now and when they learn his background, so I wanted to lay the groundwork for that. Also, if you haven't noticed, Tom is the smartest guy in every room in this story (I believe Canon Tom was very smart too, just not formally educated like he is here), and the entail question is how Cora and Violet see that first hand. (3) The evolution of Mary with regard to Matthew is very important to how Sybil sees her own interaction with Tom, so the final scene in the last chapter just sets that up._

_But the Sybil and Tom goodness is all here, to make up for the absence before ;)_

_By the way, I know the last chapter mentions Matthew needing to hire someone to replace Jarvis. I'll do away with the suspense now. I am NOT planning on making Tom estate agent. I have a special surprise brewing for that, but that's a way's down the line yet._

_Thanks for reading and all that stuff :)_

* * *

Sybil entered the drawing room just behind Mary and saw that they were the last of the family to arrive. Matthew, Isobel and Edith were sitting on the sofa, and Violet and Cora were across from them in armchairs. Her father was at his usual spot by the hearth. Next to him was Tom.

Sybil was about to walk over to them when her mother gestured to her. Sybil went over to Cora, who extended her hand and took Sybil's into hers.

Turning to the sofa, Cora said, "Isobel, I do hope you will all join us for Sybil's birthday celebration next week."

Isobel perked up at the invitation. "We'd love to come."

"We'll be inviting some family friends as well as Robert's sister, Rosamund," Cora went on. "Not a big to do, but enjoyable, we hope."

"How old will you be?" Matthew asked.

"Seventeen," Sybil answered quietly.

_There's that mystery solved_, Tom thought to himself, smiling. She was slightly younger than he'd thought, but no less interesting for it, if their first conversation—and her apparently voracious appetite for books—had been an accurate indication.

"What a delightful age," Isobel said, "though I suppose a bit frustrating, too."

"Oh? How so?" Violet asked with a skeptical expression.

"Old enough to be aware of the adult world but still too young to have it within reach yet," Isobel responded.

"An accurate description, to be sure," Sybil said with a smile.

Mary sat down in the spot vacated by Matthew, who had moved to join the other men at the hearth, both steering well clear of each other in the process. Notice of their interaction did not escape Sybil.

Isobel, who had been discussing the possibility of helping at the hospital to Cora and Violet before Sybil and Mary had walked in, continued the conversation, giving Sybil the opportunity to walk over to the other side of the room, to the chaiselong by the window to sit down. She'd not been there but a few minutes when Tom sauntered over to her.

"You will notice that I let you see me as I approached," he said jokingly, leaning against the window sill next to the chaise.

Sybil smiled. "Thank you for that."

"So have you chosen a book? I noticed that you left the library yesterday morning without having done so."

"I am still thinking about what topic to start with." She paused for a moment, then asked, "What interests you?"

"History and politics, but that shouldn't enter into your decision."

"Why not?"

"This is about _you_. You should learn about things that _you_ like."

Sybil felt herself blushing ever so slightly at the pointed way he'd said 'you,' punctuated by a nod of his head.

"That's an advantage you'll have in an informal education," he continued. "You are not at the mercy of your professor's scholarly inclinations. So what does interest you?"

She thought for a moment. "I will risk sounding flighty in saying so, but I'm not sure. I think I would know what would interest me if I saw a topic in front of me, but I don't know that I've ever been prompted to vocalize it just generally."

"Nobody has ever asked you what your interests are before?"

She furrowed her brow and looked down, realizing the truth for the first time. "I don't think anybody has." She looked back up at him. "I suppose I should thank you."

He smiled. "You're welcome."

She thought for a few minutes more. "This is harder than I thought. I feel as if I am thinking of everything and nothing at the same time."

"OK, what do you like to do?"

"I like riding, and walking through our gardens here. When I was a child, I enjoyed pretending my dolls were sick so I could cure them. All of that said aloud and at once makes me seem very silly—I'm afraid there is no serious subject in any of it."

"Nonsense. You have sport, botany and medicine—three terribly interesting subjects. I'm sure your father has stocked plenty of volumes on each. And I know Aunt Isobel would be happy to recommend a starter in the subject of medicine."

"That's quite a parlor trick."

Tom looked out the window, smiling, as if embarrassed. Watching his profile, Sybil considered how boyish he looked. He was several years older than her, obviously, but younger than his intellect made him seem.

"I also liked what you said yesterday about women being better informed as to how the world affects us," she added, bringing his attention back to her.

He smiled widely. "Women's rights—a topic also available in your library, though it's one your father would probably prefer you steer clear of."

"If you think that disqualifies my interest, you're wrong."

His eyes widened in delighted surprise.

"How does a young man like you engender such an interest?" She asked, surprising him again.

She didn't know it, of course, but it was a loaded question given that his answer was the plight of widowed and working women like his mother, the housekeeper.

Feeling a bit hypnotized by her sweet and sincere charm, he opened his mouth slowly to speak, not sure what would come out. Before he had a chance to say anything, though, Carson called them to dinner.

"A topic for another day," he said, extending his hand to help her up. She stood, and side-by-side they followed the rest of the party to the dining room.

No one had heard Sybil and Tom's conversation, but as she stood up, Cora briefly wondered about the reason for Sybil suddenly making an effort to look her best. Then, Cora's eyes went to Mary, who was looking at Matthew warily. And just like that whatever thought had been forming in the back of the mother's mind about the youngest daughter evaporated into worry about the eldest and was forgotten.

**XXX**

Once everyone else had filed into the dining room and sat down, Robert, still standing behind his chair, cleared his throat to get everyone's attention.

"I have an announcement to make, a celebratory one that even now I can scarcely believe I am making."

Mary looked over to her mother, a question in her expression, but Cora shrugged her shoulders slightly, making it clear she didn't know what was coming.

Robert continued. "Thanks to Matthew's generosity and Tom's sharp mind, in a month's time we will be leaving this house to return to our home at Downton Abbey."

The collective gasp that went around the room was a mix of joy and disbelief.

Cora, tears in her eyes and not able to contain herself, stood and walked around the table to hug her husband, whose eyes were red with emotion. After, she did the same with Matthew and Tom. Violet tsk'ed at this outward show of effusive emotion, but happiness was visible behind her eyes. Sybil and Edith laughed with joy, happy for their family's turn in fortune, and as they both turned to a stunned Mary, they saw her stoic countenance trying to fight a wave of warring emotions. Mary, in truth, did not know what to think. This is what she had wished for, to go back to the house that she'd always intended to be her home forever, so why was she now unsure as to her place there?

Cora noticed Mary's reaction and grabbed her shoulder in a show of support on her way back to her chair. "This is wonderful news, don't you think, Mary?"

This pulled Mary back into the room, and she smiled. "Yes, very much." She looked down to collect herself, then looking at Matthew with a look that conveyed sincere gratitude if short of sincere affection, said quietly, "Thank you."

Matthew returned her smile and, seeing a quality akin to vulnerability in her for the first time, resolved to let down his own guard as well.

Carson, who'd been standing with Thomas in the back of the room, ready to begin serving, stepped up to Robert, "Your lordship—"

Robert turned to him immediately, "Gracious! Carson, I should have asked you to bring the staff up for the announcement."

"So I may share the excellent news downstairs, milord?"

"You may," Robert said. "We will discuss the move as well as hiring back additional staff for the house tomorrow with Mr. Crawley, here, yourself and Mrs. Hughes."

"Certainly, milord."

Robert added, "And you can also announce a raise in wages to the staff."

Tom grinned, happy to have won that battle.

"Thank you, milord, that is very generous."

"Thank Mr. Branson," Robert said smiling over at Tom. "He made it happen."

"Is this what you were working on in the library yesterday, Mr. Branson?" Sybil asked.

"It was."

Sybil grinned in response, inwardly looking forward to sharing the tale with Gwen.

"So we're indulging in socialism now, are we?" Violet asked.

"Certainly not, mama," Robert said, rolling his eyes. "Don't be silly."

"A fair wage is hardly socialism, your ladyship," Tom spoke up. "Or do you disagree with the notion that we should share in the good times with those who have shared in the bad with us?"

Violet narrowed her eyes at him, as if sizing him up. Finally she said, "An eloquently stated question to which there is no good answer except no," reluctantly conceding the point to Tom but doing so with a smile. She looked over at Cora and nodded slightly, as if relenting to her the earlier point that Tom was the man for the job on the entail.

Cora lifted her glass. "Indeed, very well said, Mr. Branson. Cheers to you both."

The rest of the family joined in her toast and dinner proceeded in the celebratory tone in which Robert had started it. Tom and Matthew felt welcomed and appreciated by people they had, only days before, believed completely alien to themselves. Isobel was beaming proudly and feeling a lump in her throat brought on by the wish that Reginald—and Claire, who at that moment was chatting quietly with Ivy in her small sitting room—could see them now.

**XXX**

After dinner, when the ladies moved to the drawing room, Tom excused himself to Robert and Matthew, who were continuing their ongoing discussion about the restoration of Downton Abbey, and stole away to the library.

He made it back to the drawing room after about ten minutes, just as Robert and Matthew entered, but he didn't bother to sit or start conversation. Isobel, feeling tired, had asked if they could head home early, and so the whole group made their way to the entrance hall to say their goodbyes.

Sybil was disappointed not to have more time to talk with Tom, but as she walked to the entrance hall, she felt him slip, discretely and unnoticed by anyone else, a small scrap of paper into her hand. She looked over at him as he did so, but he winked at her at said nothing, making her blush and grateful for the low lighting. Not wanting to draw attention to what he had given her, she slipped the paper into her glove to look at when she was alone in her room.

The visiting parties said their goodbyes and headed out to the waiting motors.

Violet, finding herself next to Matthew, ventured a word to him. "Will you be happy remaining at Crawley House when your investment is at Downton."

Matthew smiled. "We will. Downton may be my home eventually, but I see no reason to keep the family away until then."

Violet sighed. "We are all grateful, even Mary. She was quiet tonight, but I know she's been rather sharp with you."

"I doubt cousin Mary and I are destined to be close friends, but she'll be happier home at Downton, perhaps. As for her attitude regarding the situation, I don't blame her. Her father's home and her mother's fortune are to be passed to me. It's very harsh."

Violet, watching Tom as he helped Isobel aboard, asked, "What would you say if the entail was set aside in Mary's favor?"

"I should try to accept it with as good a grace as I could muster."

The answer satisfied Violet. Now, it was just a matter of putting the issue to the test.

**XXX**

Later that night, after Anna—sadly for Sybil, not Gwen—had come up to help her out of her clothes and into bed, Sybil took a deep breath and finally opened the note Tom had given her.

_Wherever I am told I cannot go, that is where I want most to be. Back wall, third bookcase column from the left, second shelf from the bottom, seventh book from the right._

Sybil stoop up from her bed and opened her door quietly. Confident that the rest of her family was in for the night, she tiptoed her way to the library. Once there, she followed his instructions. The book was A Vindication of the Rights of Women: with Strictures on Political and Moral Subjects by Mary Wollstonecraft. Sybil hugged it to her chest, giddy and grateful to him for having unearthed such a treasure for her.

As she stood from where she'd crouched to reach the book, she noticed her father's ledger and her shoulders drooped. Did she dare sign it out and risk his discovering this new area of interest and meet with his disapproval? She walked over to it and opened it slowly, trying to make a decision. Upon seeing the most recent entry, she let out a laugh. It was this very book, checked out by T. Branson. He'd thought of everything.

Sybil ran back to her room and set herself down on her bed for a long night of reading.

In another bed, not so very far away, Tom was lying awake, thinking about the new course his life was on and wondering whether it would ever have to veer very far away from hers.


	11. Chapter 11

_This chapter takes place on the morning of Sybil's birthday and includes Violet going to see Tom about fighting the entail. In my chronology we're between series one, episodes two and three. On the show, Violet doesn't ask Matthew to review the entail until episode four, after the Pamuk/Napier visit, so I moved it up._

_Also, a small detail: In the first season, Matthew makes reference to getting off the train once on seeing Edith in Downton village presumably after he's finished work for the day, which I took to mean that since he doesn't have a car, he gets to his law practice in Ripon by riding his bike to the Downton train station, then taking a very short train ride to Ripon and then walking from the station to his office. Same holds true in this story. When he, Tom and Isobel go to Downton Place/Abbey, Pratt comes to pick them up. Violet, who still lives in the Dowager house in Downton Village in this story, has her own chauffer._

* * *

In the days that followed the announcement that the family would return to Downton Abbey, the house was a flurry of activity.

In seeming contrast, however, Sybil developed a habit of sleeping so late that Anna or Gwen had to wake her to ensure she did not miss breakfast. Both of her parents knew of and indulged Sybil's penchant for reading and smiled at her bleary eyed state on the occasional morning when she walked into the small dining room long after her sisters, but if either noticed the increased frequency with which she'd overslept this particular week, they did not say. They remained ignorant as to her current subject of interest.

It was attributable, of course, to her staying up hours into the night reading and, more to the point, thinking about what Tom had given her to read—Miss Wollstonecraft's treatise on women's rights. Normally, the act of reading lulled Sybil to sleep an hour or two after she'd settled into bed with the book she happened to be reading, but in this case, reading kept her awake, roiling her thoughts in such a way as to make sleep nigh impossible. Long after she'd put Miss Wollestonecraft's book down, Sybil would contemplate what it all meant and how it explained her own life and the life of her sisters.

When Miss Wollstonecraft's discussed the treatment of women at the hands of men who saw them merely as adornments and not as wholly formed humans of intellect and strength, and went on to discuss the weakening of the character of women as a result of being taught not to support one another but to compete for the affections of these men, Sybil thought of her sisters, the manner in which Patrick played them against one another seeming to Sybil more obvious than ever. _Had he ever loved either one of them?_ There was affection, sure, but only the type of affection that spoke to, as Miss Wollstonecraft would say, the superficiality of the pleasantries of courtship that focus on beauty that will fade, not moral fiber and mind and spirit. _No_, Sybil thought, _Patrick could not have loved them, for true love would have persuaded him to honor the sisterly bond between them and to treat them with the honesty and respect they were due_.

When Miss Wollstonecraft's discussed the schooling, or lack thereof, of women, lambasting the men who considered her sex too weak for an appropriate education and who without irony pointed to the lack of knowledge of the world among women as the very reason to keep them in ignorance, Sybil considered again why she was not sent to school. Why was it considered improper for a young girl of her class to be sent to school? If propriety, in this case, was an instrument in the suppression of knowledge, how else was it applied to ill purpose in other facets of her life?

The book, the reading and re-reading of it—for she'd gone over it more than once—all of it challenged Sybil in a way that made her approaching birthday loom larger on her horizon. One year closer to adulthood, Sybil was now more eager than ever to live a full life, one that went well beyond what might be expected of her.

So it was that on the actual morning of her birthday, Sybil awoke early and with purpose. She dressed herself and sat down to copy her favorite passages of the book into her diary.

_I have turned over various books written on the subject of education, and patiently observed the conduct of parents and the management of schools; but what has been the result?-a profound conviction that the neglected education of my fellow-creatures is the grand source of the misery I deplore, and that women, in particular, are rendered weak and wretched by a variety of concurring causes, originating from one hasty conclusion. The conduct and manners of women, in fact, evidently prove that their minds are not in a healthy state; for, like the flowers which are planted in too rich a soil, strength and usefulness are sacrificed to beauty; and the flaunting leaves, after having pleased a fastidious eye, fade, disregarded on the stalk, long before the season when they ought to have arrived at maturity. One cause of this barren blooming I attribute to a false system of education, gathered from the books written on this subject by men who, considering females rather as women than human creatures, have been more anxious to make them alluring mistresses than affectionate wives and rational mothers; and the understanding of the sex has been so hobbled by this specious homage, that the civilised women of the present century, with a few exceptions, are only anxious to inspire love, when they ought to cherish a nobler ambition, and by their abilities and virtues exact respect._

_…_

_My own sex, I hope, will excuse me, if I treat them like rational creatures, instead of flattering their fascinating graces, and viewing them as if they were in a state of perpetual childhood, unable to stand alone. I earnestly wish to point out in what true dignity and human happiness consists. I wish to persuade women to endeavour to acquire strength, both of mind and body, and to convince them that the soft phrases, susceptibility of heart, delicacy of sentiment, and refinement of taste, are almost synonymous with epithets of weakness, and that those beings who are only the objects of pity, and that kind of love which has been termed its sister, will soon become objects of contempt._

_…_

_Dismissing, then, those pretty feminine phrases, which the men condescendingly use to soften our slavish dependence, and despising that weak elegancy of mind, exquisite sensibility, and sweet docility of manners, supposed to be the sexual characteristics of the weaker vessel, I wish to show that elegance is inferior to virtue, that the first object of laudable ambition is to obtain a character as a human being, regardless of the distinction of sex. . . ._

She was on the last sentence when Gwen came in.

"Milady, you're up!"

Sybil smiled. "I can hardly believe it myself given how I've been this week, but I was feeling inspired." Sybil finished writing and stood to see that Gwen was holding a small package.

With a bright smile, Gwen stepped forward to hand it to Sybil. "Happy birthday."

"Gwen, please don't tell me you spent your hard-earned money on me!"

"I didn't. I, um . . . well, I made it myself," Gwen said, wringing her hands, now nervous as to how her humble gift would be received.

Sybil opened the paper carefully and found a small piece of fabric embroidered with blue harebells and Sybil's initials.

"It's a bookmark," Gwen offered quietly, "since you like to read so much."

Sybil turned it over gently in her hands then looked up to her friend and, closing the gap between them in three quick steps, puller her into a hug. The gesture took the young housemaid quite by surprise. Gwen knew that Lady Sybil would call herself her friend, but earlier in the week, Gwen had been forced to wonder as to the nature of what that meant to each of them.

The servants had been once again ruing the day a middle class man had been made heir. Her ladyship walked in to hear choice words from her maid, Miss O'Brien ("If anyone thinks I'm going to pull my fur lock and curtsey to this nobody from nowhere—"), and quickly reprimanded her, the lot of them, really, regarding their talk about the Reginald Crawleys. In addressing O'Brien, she had used the word "friend," and upon her departure, a chastened O'Brien had bristled at the term.

"Friends? Who does she think she's fooling. We're not friends."

"No?" Anna responded.

"No, and you're not friends with the girls neither. We're servants you and me, and they pay us to do as we're told, that's all."

Gwen, sitting across from them at the table, stood with everyone when Mrs. Hughes ordered the end of tea and the return to work. But O'Brien's words had stayed with Gwen.

She didn't question Lady Sybil the way someone as mean spirited as O'Brien questioned everyone, but Gwen knew that there was a line separating them. Lady Sybil's generosity of spirit chose not to acknowledge that line, but that did not mean it did not exist—and occasionally, Gwen ran into a reminder of it.

Still, all of that was forgotten, at least for the moment, as the two shared a hug.

"I love it! Thank you, Gwen," Sybil said pulling away.

"I'm glad." Gwen blushed. "I best get to tidying up."

Sybil walked back to her desk and slid the bookmark into her diary.

"Are you looking forward to the festivities this evening?" Gwen asked her pulled the sheets on the bed.

Sybil turned back to Gwen. "I am rather, though I wish mama had kept it just to family."

"Has she invited many others?"

"Just Lord Merton and his family, the Greys. They have always been very kind, don't get me wrong, but Lady Merton is a bit too eager to make a match."

Gwen smiled. "With you and her son, you mean?"

"Yes. Larry's nice enough, but you well know marriage is hardly the top issue on my mind."

"Now that you're in your last year before you come out, milady, I imagine mothers of sons acquainted with the family will only get more anxious," Gwen said with a knowing smile.

Sybil sighed. "I wish they'd all just let thing things run their course naturally. The sorry state of Mary and Edith's relationship should be proof that nothing good comes of all this scheming."

Gwen watched Sybil as she walked over to her window and looked out. Gwen had not been at the house when Lady Mary had been presented to society and had little memory of the same for Lady Edith, but Gwen imagined them both welcoming the prospect with much more eagerness than Lady Sybil was likely to.

"Have you spoken with Mr. Branson since you read the book he recommended?"

Gwen smiled at how Sybil brightened at the mention of Mr. Branson's name and guessed that if _his _mother were plotting their marriage, she'd be less likely to meet with Sybil's disapproval.

"I haven't. The two times they've come to dinner this week papa has monopolized him, so we haven't had the opportunity for much beyond pleasantries. On the other hand, the delay has given me a chance to organize my thoughts on the book."

"You said it was about women's rights?"

"It is, and, oh Gwen, it's so marvelously argued. To have a brain like Miss Wollstonecraft and the fortitude to use it for such a purpose!"

Gwen smiled. "So you enjoyed reading the book, I gather?"

"Very much. It was quite eye-opening, but in a good way. Miss Wollstonecraft would very much approve of your efforts to improve yourself."

"Glad to hear it. I've just about finished the course. Now comes the hardest part."

Sybil walked over to Gwen and took her hands. "Don't fret. You'll find a secretarial job—I know you will."

Gwen wasn't so sure, and the closer she got to actually having to look for one, the more nervous she became. "What I'm most worried about at the moment is the move, if I'm honest."

"Why is that?" Sybil asked.

"The typewriter box is so heavy, it'll be hard to transport back to the big house without someone suspecting."

"I hadn't thought of that. Perhaps we should transfer it back to my room for the move."

"I'll need to finish my last lesson, but once it's sent, I think that may be the best course—if it's not too much to ask, milady."

"Of course not. I reckon it will be easier to bring it down the attic stairs than up."

The two giggled at the memory of their efforts to take the heavy device, under cover of night, from Sybil's room, past the sleeping quarters of Mrs. Hughes, Mrs. Patmore, Daisy and O'Brien and into the room Gwen shared with Anna.

"It'll all be worth it when you're working as a secretary!" Sybil exclaimed.

Not wanting to dwell on what the future might bring, Gwen brought the subject back to Mr. Branson.

"Will Mr. Branson be coming this evening with Mrs. Crawley and Mr. Matthew for your birthday? Perhaps you'll have your chance to talk with him then."

Sybil smiled. "I hope so."

**XXX**

Walking down to the kitchen after breakfast to say goodbye to his mother before heading to the train for work, Tom couldn't help but snicker at Moseley's "harrumph" in his direction as they passed each other in the hall.

Matthew had been right. "The heir" having been cajoled into submission with help from Robert, Moseley had set his sights on Tom to accept him as his valet. And while Moseley's efforts to get Tom to follow suit had been amusing to start, he was starting to become a nuisance.

Tom passed Ivy as she tidied up the kitchen from breakfast and heard her whisper, "She's in a right mood this morning, sir."

"Thanks for the warning," Tom said with a smile.

Sure enough, Claire was rummaging through her cupboard with annoyance and frustration dripping from her every move. She turned her head, hearing him come up behind her, and continued with her task with a sigh. "Four years and that girl still doesn't know how to store flour properly. I come looking for the sugar and tip it over because the lid's off, making a mess. We've lost one week's worth!"

Tom smiled. "Aunt Isobel has said you could hire a proper kitchen maid. Ivy is housemaid, and she's got plenty to do as it is."

"We don't need a kitchen maid. She just needs to do as she's told."

"It _is _a bigger house she's minding now. There's more for her to do."

Claire turned and crossed her arms. "Quite rich coming from someone who refuses the help he's already got."

Tom rolled his eyes, getting increasingly irritated. "Please, not you too."

"What exactly do you gain from keeping Mr. Moseley from doing his job—other than making him cross, which Ivy and I then have to deal with, I mean."

With that, the dam holding back Tom's temper broke.

"He's got no business taking his sour mood out on you. I've told him repeatedly, I have no use for him. If he has such problem with me, maybe he should look for another job—or better yet another line of work! Something that's actually useful to the world and not simply meant to keep fecking aristocrats ensconced on their high and mighty perch!"

Now, it was Claire's turn to roll her eyes. "Are you quite finished?" She asked pointedly.

Tom took a deep breath, trying to calm himself down. He knew it was wrong to curse in front of his mother and to force her to bear the brunt of his ire, but if Moseley was making her life difficult just because Tom was standing his ground as a proud member of the middle class, Tom wouldn't stand for it. "I don't need a valet, and he doesn't need to burden you with his absurd insistence otherwise."

"Believe it or not I don't care whether you let Mr. Moseley so much as open a door for you every morning. You're a grown man, and I trust you to make appropriate decisions as to your comportment."

"Thank you, I—"

"However," Claire interrupted, "I will not have you judge a man's line of work."

"What work? Dressing and undressing men as if they were children?"

"All right, then, I'll suggest he give his notice!" Claire exclaimed. Her voice was dripping with sarcasm. "Never mind the loyalty he's paid Mrs. Crawley by abiding by her wishes to treat you like _her _son, even though you belong to me, and not going and blabbing gossip about it all at the local pub! Because you best believe that the great majority of people in service are so unbearably proud, they would have done just that! Never mind that this is the work his father did! Never mind he took it because he had no choice! Or have you forgotten that not everyone gets the luxury of deciding whether they're a doctor or a solicitor or even a bloody shop keeper!"

Tom sighed contritely, pushed his hands into his pockets and looked down to the floor.

Claire walked up to him and pulled his chin with her hands so he was looking at her. "Tommy, you have three gifts, your heart, your smarts and the ticket to a life in which you could use both to their full potential—two you were born with and the third was given to you. You say you don't want a valet because you don't want the trappings of a better life to change you, but will you consider that the close-minded rejection of what comes with that life can change you too? Because no son of mine would ever judge a man for simply trying to do his job."

"Are _you _quite finished?" Tom, duly humbled, said with a mirthless laugh.

Claired sighed. "Mr. Moseley is supposed to help you. If dressing you is not the way, then think of something else. Something _useful_. But something. He deserves that—and so do you. You've earned it."

Tom's smirk turned into a full smile. "What would I do without you?"

Claire smiled back. "Get a bit lost every now and again, but you'd find your way eventually."

"I doubt that."

"Oh, you'd be just fine. So long as you find a girl who's not afraid to put you in your place when you need it."

**XXX**

Tom spent the train ride to Ripon and the walk to the office thinking about his mother's reprimand.

Back in Manchester, in the two years since he'd returned after finishing his degree, his had been an easy and uneventful existence. He was earning a good income running his own practice alongside his oldest and closest friend. He'd moved out of the family house and into his own flat. He still shared his meals with the Crawleys on most days. And there was his mother's not so subtle campaign to ensure his were not the hands of a gentleman, with her asking him over almost ever weekend to fix this or move that. The time he had that was his, he'd spend at the mechanic shop down the street from his flat. He'd made friends with the owner, who, in return for some free legal advice, had agreed to teach Tom how to care for a motor—the one indulgence that Tom could not resist and indeed had been saving up for since his return from university in Dublin. Yes, life in Manchester had been simple, good, and with no valet and his antiquated proprieties to bother him.

But Manchester was no longer his home, and Tom couldn't deny now that the change in Matthew's fortunes had had a major effect on his as well. He hadn't foreseen the extent to which that would be true the day Matthew walked into their office with that fated letter. Tom did not regret having agreed to join him in Yorkshire. Tom would always be willing to do anything for Isobel and Matthew, just as they had done everything for him. They were his family, and with his mother agreeing to move with them, there had been little left in Manchester to stay behind for. There was also a very small part of him that, back then, had been dissatisfied with the very simplicity he was now nostalgic for. But despite that desire for more, he hadn't realized until this morning, how unprepared he had been for the torrent of change that the move brought and to face it unyielding and obstinately was not the way of the modern man he wanted to be. His mother had been right.

_Isn't she always_, he thought with a smile.

If he wanted to see the world change and grow in a positive direction, he'd have to learn to do so himself.

Besides, the move to Yorkshire hadn't been all bad. As loath as he was to admit it, given Moseley's constant hovering, he enjoyed living with the family again. His new job—tedious as it was to be someone's employee—paid him more than he'd made on his own. He enjoyed the challenge of helping Matthew turn the fiefdom that had been the foundering Grantham estate into a profitable venture that played a positive, more equitable role in the fortunes of the county. In spite of himself, he enjoyed his burgeoning friendship with Lord Grantham.

And, of course, there was the young lady.

Sybil.

_Lady _Sybil.

She likely did not yet, given her youth, but eventually she would be expected to make use of a lady's maid. If he was so adamant in his rejection of a valet's services, would he accept a future wife who employed the equivalent? Could he allow himself to develop feelings for a woman whose position represented everything he believed himself to be against? Was he ready to give up on the idea that the woman best suited to him would be a working woman?

Tom laughed at himself, realizing that the answer to each question was no longer a clear cut "No," not if Sybil was the woman in question. He had indulged what he initially thought would be a passing fancy, but she was too beautiful, and had proven too curious, too engaging, too interesting, too every adjective under the sun for any of the feelings in him—inspired by merely two private conversations, the promise of more and a long series of glances across the dinner table at Downton Place—to be fleeting.

**XXX**

Tom hadn't been at work more than two hours when one of the stewards came into his office to announce a visitor.

"Someone to see you, Mr. Branson."

Without looking up, Tom responded, "There's nothing in my diary."

"It's Lady Grantham."

Tom's head jerked up with a start. _What could she want with me?_

He'd shed his jacket upon entering, as was his custom, so he quickly stood to put it back on.

Hearing his visitor step in, Tom began, "Lady Grantham, to what do I owe—" but, having expected to see Cora, he stopped short seeing instead that it was Violet. If the pope himself had stepped in, Tom would have been less surprised.

"Well, I hope I'm not a disappointment," she said in her usual pert manner.

Tom, not knowing what to say, merely pointed her to the chair in front of his desk, then sat down himself.

"I suppose you're wondering why I'm here."

"I am, your ladyship."

"Oh, let's dispense with that, shall we, Tom?"

"Excuse me?"

"You are like family to Matthew and Isobel, and they are family to us. Robert is fond of you, despite your unusual political persuasions. I see no reason to keep up with formalities, especially once you've done what I'm about to ask."

"So what should I call you?"

"Cousin Violet will do."

Tom scratched his head, still in a bit of shock he was having this conversation.

"What? Do you believe me so inflexible that I cannot welcome a middle class solicitor into the circle of my family?"

"I'm just surprised, that's all."

"It's good to have friends of all persuasions, if the revolution ever does come."

Tom laughed. "I'll be sure to spare you from the guillotine."

Violet smiled in spite of herself. "Now, as to why I'm here. I'd like you to review my husband's will."

"You mean you want me to try to break the entail?"

"I want you to look into whether there is some recourse for Mary to have an inheritance. I know Matthew is like a brother to you, and he seems a good man. I'll pay him the compliment that he does not wish to inherit just because nobody's investigated properly."

Tom sighed. "No, but—"

"Nor can Mary accuse you of making trouble when your close friend will suffer most from a discovery."

"But won't that be the very reason she will doubt my efficacy?"

"I trust you. That will be enough for her."

"If I may play devil's advocate, may I ask why?"

"Cora believes that your conviction on behalf of women will call you to act on our behalf. I agree. I know you will remain true to Matthew. That assures me you will adhere to the law. It is the only manner in which you may be faithful to all parties."

"I have to tell him I'm doing this."

"And you should."

Tom thought for a moment. "You're right that Matthew doesn't wish to benefit at Mary's expense from an ignorance of the law—"

"Putting it bluntly," Violet interjected again, "do you think Robert has thrown in the towel prematurely?"

As she was speaking Violet shifted, and the chair she was sitting on gave way.

"Good heavens! What am I sitting on!?"

Tom smiled. "A swivel chair."

"Another modern brainwave?"

"Not very modern. They were invented by Thomas Jefferson."

"Why does every day involve a fight with an American," Violet said with a sigh. "A hero of yours, no doubt."

Tom shrugged. "Yes and no."

"Oh?"

"He wrote eloquently on the cause of freedom and helped lead a revolution that created the model for all modern democracies, but the man himself was a slave owner."

"The human experience is nothing if not a never-ending exercise in contradiction."

"I suppose that's true. Shall I fetch a different chair?"

"No, no. I'm a good sailor."

"As to what you're asking me. It will depend on the exact terms of the entail and of the deed of gift when Lady Grantham—that is, your daughter in law—allowed for her money to be transferred to the estate."

"That is all I ask, to understand the exact terms."

"I shall do my best."

"Thank you, Tom." Violet stood to leave, and Tom walked with her back outside. She was just about to step in the motor when Tom called out.

"Cousin Violet?"

Violet turned back to face him. "Yes?"

Tom smiled. "Just trying it out."

Violet rolled her eyes and climbed into the back seat. Tom stepped up to the motor and added, "Thank you for your trust in me."

"You're part of the family now," Violet responded. "You'll find that we Crawleys stick together."


	12. Chapter 12

_This is the chapter that would never end! Seriously, it's a loooong one. When I outlined it, I knew it would be long, but I didn't want to cut any of the scenes, and when I was writing it, I didn't want to break it up into multiple post so here it is in its full glory. Hope you enjoy!_

_(In case there is any confusion, "Merton" is to the Grey family what "Grantham" is to the Crawley family.)_

* * *

From the moment each of them was born, Mary, Edith and Sybil Crawley manifested such distinct personalities, Cora sometimes joked to Robert that they weren't the parents of three sisters, but rather of three only children. That the girls had two parents in common seemed sometimes only something of a coincidence. Their mother said this not because Mary, Edith and Sybil were all spoiled, but because each required a different approach when it came to parenting.

Mary was practically a fully formed adult from birth and refused to be babied, coddled or condescended to in anyway. Edith had been a shy child and less inclined to speak up for herself than her more precocious older sister, so it took more hands-on contact to bring her out of her shell. Sybil was something of a mix of the two. She was independent like Mary, but where Mary prided herself on strict adherence to the rules—indeed, casting herself as the guardian of them among the sisters—Sybil questioned them at every turn. Like Edith, Sybil was disinclined to be the center of attention, but her forgiving, deferential nature didn't stem from a lack of self-esteem as it did with Edith, but rather an open-minded willingness to believe the best of everyone around her. Cora might have feared this as naiveté in her youngest daughter if she hadn't, over the years, proven herself to be something of an old soul.

And just as each sister was of a distinct temperament, each pair—Mary and Edith, Mary and Sybil and Edith and Sybil—shared a unique dynamic. There was, in fact, but one tradition that brought them together in an affectionate sisterly bond that all of them enjoyed in equal measure. It happened three times a year, on each of their birthdays.

How they spent the day was always much the same. After luncheon, they'd take a walk together, sometimes in silence, sometimes in a flurry of chatter, depending always on the mood and inclination of the one being celebrated. After tea, the two whose birthday it wasn't would come to the bedroom of the third so she could open their gifts. They'd spend the rest of the early evening there, where they'd get dressed and ready together for whatever festivities, big or small, had been planned. Disagreements didn't matter on this day. And for that reason alone, since Edith's debut two years prior, when the rivalry between her and Mary began to reach a fever pitch, their birthdays were Sybil's three favorite days of the year.

In the year of 1912, for Edith's birthday in February and Mary's in March—when any topic that could veer back to Cousin Patrick was best avoided—the sisters had talked about what their first spring at Downton Place would be like, the new fashions coming from Paris, whether New York was as interesting as the novels of Edith Wharton made it out to be (according to Mary, whose memories of their mother's home were freshest, the answer was an emphatic "no"), whether their father would agree to return to Duneagle this year after declining the invitation the previous summer and whether they would ever have the chance to step into Downton Abbey again.

On the late August afternoon of Sybil's seventeenth birthday, now all of them knowing that in short order Downton Abbey would be their home again, Mary, Edith and Sybil contemplated how very acutely everything had changed in a matter of a few months. Everything they had talked about when Edith had turned 20 and later, when Mary turned 22, seemed like trivia from a different life altogether. Patrick and James were dead, replaced by a cousin and heir that, however benign his intentions, had set the girls' world spinning, none of them knowing how or when the dizzying pace of change would slow. The sisters were facing an unknown future that, by virtue of their return to Downton, was going to take a jaunt through the past.

"Do you suppose it will feel the same as before?" Sybil asked her sisters.

She was standing by the window of her bedroom looking out, while Edith, sitting on Sybil's bed, paged through a magazine and Mary sat at the chair in front of the vanity, idly rummaging through Sybil's jewelry box.

"I haven't thought about it much," Edith confessed. "It doesn't seem real. I think subconsciously I'm not accepting it's happening until we're actually there again."

"It won't be the same," Mary said with a sigh. "It's not really ours anymore, is it? It's just on loan from you know who."

"I don't know why you insist on being so cross with Cousin Matthew," Sybil said. "Besides, I thought you of all people would happy to be going back."

"I am. I just don't want to feel beholden to him."

Edith snorted. "And why in the world would you feel that. It's papa's debt he's settled, not yours."

Mary thought carefully about what to say that would explain her deeply mixed emotions. "I want to enjoy the days we have left there, but how can I know how long that will be? We'll all be married soon enough. It just seems like we'll be on borrowed time at Downton, and I don't happen to like the lender—whatever mama or papa say about what a supposedly nice person he is. Matthew hasn't proven himself to be anything to us."

Sybil turned to look at Mary with a knowing smile. "Maybe he's waiting for _you_ to make an ovation of friendship."

Mary rolled her eyes. "He'll be waiting a long time."

Sybil and Edith looked at one another, holding back their amusement. Mary's snobbery could be grating, but it was a trait so ingrained into her character that even they couldn't help but be amused, even endeared, by it sometimes.

"Who exactly is going to be in charge of running the house, Matthew or papa?" Edith asked.

"It shall be a dual monarchy," Mary answered.

"That sounds ominous," Sybil said.

"If it's trouble, papa has only brought it on himself," Mary said. "To think that months ago these people were virtually strangers, and now he must share power with them, and I must marry the son."

"You won't marry him though, will you?" Edith asked.

"What, marry a sea monster?" Mary retorted.

Sybil moved from the window to the bed and sat on the corner opposite Edith. "A sea monster? What on earth are you talking about?"

"Don't you know the story of Andromeda and Perseus?"

Edith rolled her eyes. "What could Greek mythology possibly have to do with you and poor Cousin Matthew?"

"Andromeda is the daughter of King Cepheus, and she's kidnapped by a sea monster sent by Poseidon and chained to a rock as a sacrifice until Perseus comes to her rescue."

Sybil smirked at Mary. "So you've cast yourself as the wronged princess who will be held against her will at Cousin Matthew's mercy until your Perseus comes to ask papa permission to marry you?"

"When you put it in such prosaic terms, it's not nearly so romantic as I imagine it," Mary responded.

Sybil and Edith exchanged glances and fell into a fit of laughter on the bed. Mary rolled her eyes at her sisters' lack of decorum, but couldn't keep a smile from forming on her face.

After a few minutes, Sybil collected herself and said with a sigh. "We shouldn't laugh at Cousin Matthew's expense. That's so unkind."

"Well, even if Mary won't have him, he must marry someone," Edith said looking at no one in particular.

Mary arched her eyebrows. "Edith, what are you thinking?"

"You know, I don't dislike him as much as you do."

"Perhaps you don't dislike him at all," Mary said airily.

"Perhaps I don't."

Wide-eyed at the sudden admission, Sybil looked to Mary. _Would this match, at least, proceed in peace between them?_

Mary's gaze shifted from Sybil to Edith, whose eyes were still on the magazine on her lap, then turned back to the jewelry box. "Well, it's nothing to me. I've bigger fish to fry."

"What fish?" Sybil asked.

"Are we talking about 'E.N.'?" Edith asked, before Mary had a chance to respond to Sybil.

"How do you know that?" Mary asked, turning back to Edith. "Have you been poking around in my things?"

"Of course not!"

Sybil, as always, was frustrated at being the last to know. "Come on, who is he? It's not fair if you both know."

Mary took a deep breath and finally answered. "You won't be any the wiser, but his name is Evelyn Napier."

"The honorable Evelyn Napier, son and heir to Viscount Branksome," Edith said, saluting playfully with her hand.

"Who wants an old sea monster when they can have Perseus?" Mary posed, sending her sisters into giggles again.

**XXX**

About an hour after she'd left Tom's office, Violet had sent her chauffer back with her husband's papers, and he'd spent the rest of the day immersed in the minutiae of the late Lord Grantham's last will and testament. He emerged from his office in the late afternoon not having found anything that would secure what Violet and her daughter in law were after on Mary's behalf—at least not easily. In fact, his only true accomplishment with regard to the matter was managing to keep his temper as he learned how a man who'd not worked a day in his life could so easily dispense with money that wasn't his.

He knew little of Cora's background beyond the fact that she was American, but he couldn't imagine any parents that would have allowed a daughter to sign away so much without thought as to the implications. Well, he _could_ imagine them. But that was something else that set him apart from the upper classes. He would not be so cavalier as to take the security of those he loved for granted. Tom knew that a son would have rendered moot the question to which he was now seeking an answer, but the randomness of nature seemed to be playing a joke on the Crawley family. And now it was up to him to explain the punch line to "Cousin Violet," who, he thought with a snicker, was unlikely to appreciate his sense of humor.

Having arrived back home in time for tea with Isobel and Matthew, Tom explained to them both what she had asked him to do. Isobel was as surprised and amused as Tom had been at the uppity old woman's sudden wish to be on more familiar terms with Tom, but Isobel was glad to see that the family was taking steps to embrace him as one of theirs. Matthew, for his part, did not begrudge Tom his willingness to cooperate and actually thought it a useful exercise. His plans for the estate were underway but still in their infancy. It wouldn't hurt to be assured that all legal matters had been settled—and the expectations of a certain eldest daughter either brought to bear or dismissed once and for all—before anything was done that couldn't be undone.

Matthew had thought, on the evening of the announcement of the family's return to Downton Abbey, that even if they never became very close, the tension between him and Mary might dissipate once she knew she'd return to the place she so longed to be. But while the haughty barbs had stopped, they'd been replaced by no words at all. He sometimes wondered if not speaking to him was her way of sending the message that she absolutely did not want to marry him—as she'd presupposed he'd want to do on the day they met.

_She certainly doesn't have to worry on that score, _Matthew thought.

If it was a lingering lack of certainty as to her situation that kept Mary so closed off from her newly discovered cousin, then Tom would settle the question to a point that would allow everyone to move on. At least, that's what Matthew hoped. He knew she'd cast him as villain in her story, even if it was a not a role he'd ever intended to play.

**XXX**

With the hour to leave for Downton Place for Sybil's birthday dinner, Isobel approaching, Matthew and Tom had headed upstairs to change.

Tom was about to put on his bowtie when he heard the door of Matthew's room open. And indeed, when he looked out into the hall, there was Moseley, who, upon seeing Tom, turned to him with a hopeful air.

"Can I help with something, sir?"

Tom couldn't keep himself from smiling. "No—well, yes—actually I wanted to speak to you about something, but as it takes the whole of my concentration to get this blasted thing on straight and we are short on time, I will need your help"—Tom lifted up his tie and extended his hand to give it to Moseley, before quickly pulling it back—"but only just this once."

Moseley took it with a smile and followed Tom into his room, closing the door behind him.

"What did you want to discuss, sir?" Moseley asked as he waited for Tom to lift up his collar.

Tom moved in front of Moseley and lifted his chin so the valet could get to work on the tie. "I know you want me to make use of your services, and while I think I've made my stance on being dressed by someone else quite clear, I don't want you to feel like I'm keeping you from doing your job, such as it is. I want to find a suitable solution, but may I ask something first?"

"Certainly, sir."

"What do you like about being a valet? I recognize it's rather a condescending question, but I don't mean for it to be. I'm genuinely curious to know if your job is enjoyable to you."

Moseley stepped back, having finished with the tie. "Well, sir, my father was butler to a gentleman who was an assistant to the foreign secretary, and he used to say that people in service do the little things so that those they serve can do the big things."

Tom considered Moseley's words. "I'm not sure how that answers my question."

"Have you heard of Simon Bolivar, sir?" Moseley asked.

"The Spaniard who liberated South America?"

"Yes." Moseley smiled, a bit bashfully. "I enjoy studying history when I have some time to spare. Mr. Bolivar wore elaborate coats with dozens of buttons that ran on either side of his chest, up to his neck. He employed several people to button them for him, and he would admonish them to do so slowly when he was in a hurry. It sounds contradictory, but taking care to dress him carefully, his men ensured that they wouldn't waste his time, precious as it was, by making a mistake and forcing him to wait while they did it again."

"Seeing as I'm not liberating colonies from their monarchical oppressors, I wouldn't say my time is as precious as his was."

"But that doesn't mean it's not valuable to you, sir. The truth is very few men accomplish truly great things—at least on the level of the likes of Simon Bolivar, but many more accomplish good things. I'm not suggesting they couldn't have done so without servants, only that their servants may derive a sense of purpose from serving them. Mrs. Branson would agree, I think, that people in our line of work don't often have much to feel exceptionally proud of, so we find it where we can."

Tom looked at Moseley seriously for a long moment. "Since you mention my mother, do you really have no problem working for the son of a housekeeper?"

"I know that there are men in service who take great pride in the titles and lineage of the dukes and earls and what have you who employ them. I prefer to focus on a man's character. I find it helps me sleep at night."

"So as to my original question?"

"There is tedium to every profession, including yours I imagine, so speaking to a butler's daily tasks, some are more pleasant than others. But if I have respect for the people who employ me and if I feel useful to them, then all tasks done on their behalf are worth doing. By which I mean, I do enjoy serving you and Mr. Crawley, and hope to do so for a long time."

Tom smiled. "I appreciate that. I maintain that I can dress myself, but there is something I'd like you to do for me."

"Is there, now?" Moseley asked, his expression brightening.

"I'd like you to iron the newspapers. Lord Grantham suggested it needed doing after he saw one of my handkerchiefs."

"I wondered how they came to be so filthy."

"It's the ink. I read several of them at breakfast, as you know. With the ink still wet, it comes off on my hands. I've spent more on new handkerchiefs in the last two years than on anything else, if you can believe it."

"So this is not a luxury, then."

"No, it's a cost-saving measure—a much needed one."

Moseley smiled. "Anything else?"

"I impose on my dear mam to mend my shirts even when she's got so much to do herself because I'm rubbish with a needle and thread."

"I can do that for her."

"I think that is all."

"Very good, sir." Moseley bowed and moved to leave the room. He was at the door when Tom called out to him.

"Is there something I can do for _you_, Moseley?"

Moseley thought for a few seconds. "I imagine his lordship has a fine library."

"He does. Would you like me to borrow something on your behalf?"

Moseley nodded. "I would, sir, if it's not an unreasonable request."

"Not at all. Perhaps something on the Spanish conquistadors, if you like the tales of the New World."

"I would enjoy that very much."

**XXX**

Lord and Lady Merton, their son Mr. Larry Grey, Lady Rosamund Painswick and the rest of the Crawley family were gathered in the drawing room when Isobel, Matthew and Tom arrived at Downton Place. Carson led them there and announced their arrival, prompting Robert, who'd been standing in his usual spot by the hearth, to walk over to welcome them. Cora did likewise. After exchanging pleasantries, she took Isobel by the arm to the far end of the room to meet Rosamund, who was chatting with her nieces, Mary and Edith. Robert motioned to Matthew and Tom to follow him so he could introduce his old friend to the two young men to whom he owed his return to Downton and in whose hands the future of the estate rested.

Sybil, meanwhile, was sitting on the sofa flanked by Larry and Violet, with Lady Merton across from them in an armchair. Sybil had been anticipating Tom's arrival since she'd walked into the drawing room, hoping they'd have a chance to talk before dinner, but the Greys had descended on her from the moment they'd walked in, not leaving her side and not really letting her get a word in edgewise. As she watched Tom greet her parents, she knew there was no delicate way she could extricate herself from the current conversation without making it plainly obvious to whom she wished to give her attention. She'd not yet had to endure teasing from her family regarding interest in a young man, and realizing that her nearing debut would make that a more frequent topic, she didn't want to give them any ammunition that would make things awkward with Tom, whose friendship she hoped could rise above all that silliness.

Tom did manage to glance in her direction on his way across the room behind Robert, and catching his eye, Sybil smiled brightly—so brightly, in fact, that the young man sitting next to her couldn't help but notice.

"So who are your new friends, Sybil?" Larry asked her quietly.

"Cousin Matthew is papa's heir as you know. Cousin Isobel is his mother, and Mr. Branson is their distant relation I believe. Cousin Isobel raised him as her son."

"What's his parentage?"

"Papa said his father was from Ireland, which is why he returned there for his studies and speaks with an Irish accent, but other than that I don't know."

Larry looked over to the group of men talking at the hearth. "So there's a mick in our midst. I must say I never thought I'd see the day the Earl of Grantham would—"

Larry stopped short seeing Sybil's face, which had hardened in anger at the slur.

Larry smirked. "It's just an expression, Sybil."

"I know how it's intended."

"Ireland is a messy business. No lady like you should concern herself with it."

"I'm perfectly capable of deciding what I concern myself with," Sybil responded, turning away from Larry to Violet and Lady Merton, who had been discussing a mutual friend. Sybil heard Larry snort behind her and then felt him stand, presumably to join the men's conversation.

"And are they enjoying New York?" Sybil heard her grandmother ask Lady Merton.

"I believe so, though dear Elinor did say that their son has been entertaining some unsettling ideas."

Violet sighed. "It's to be expected. It's an unsettling place, after all."

"Oh, granny, New York really can't be so unpleasant," Sybil piped in. "Grandmama makes her home there."

"That woman's endorsement of it is proof enough of my point."

Sybil couldn't help but laugh. Violet's disapproval of her other grandmother, Martha, was always amusing to watch in action.

"Well, it seems William has decided to send his young daughter to a school newly opened by a Miss Maria Chapin," Lady Merton said. "Elinor has met her and says she's bit of a radical. It seems she supports women having the vote. But William won't hear of hiring a proper governess."

"A school run by a suffragette, that sounds rather wonderful!" Sybil said.

"Wonderful? Wonderfully ghastly!" Violet exclaimed.

"How can you say that granny? I would have enjoyed going to a real school."

"Sybil, darling, why would you want to go to a real school?" Violet asked. "You're not a doctor's daughter."

"But nobody learns anything from a governess, apart from French and how to curtsey."

Violet was indignant. "What else do you need?!"

"Well, there's—"

"Were you thinking of a career in banking?" Violet said shaking her head.

"No, but it is a noble profession," Sybil said not backing down.

"Things are different in America," Cora said, having just walked over from where she'd left Isobel chatting with Rosamund. She took a seat in the spot on the sofa Larry had vacated.

"I know," Violet responded. "They live in wigwams."

"And when they come out of them they go to school," Cora said, causing Sybil to snicker.

"Oh, Violet, don't fret," Lady Merton said. "Sybil's just anxious for her life to start. Her season will be here before you know it, and all silly thoughts will give way to what really matters in due course. Won't they, dear?" This last she said turning to Sybil with a patronizing smile.

Sybil didn't want to stir an argument so early in the evening, but also didn't want her position misunderstood. "I'm sure William doesn't consider the education of his daughter a silly subject."

But Lady Merton continued, turning back to Violet and not bothering to acknowledge what Sybil had said. "I wonder that girls need to wait until they're eighteen," she said. "It makes these last years difficult, particularly so for someone like Sybil who has seen her sisters go before her and who already has such a friend as Larry with whom to look forward to sharing her time."

It took some effort for Sybil not to groan aloud. It would have been one thing if she enjoyed Larry's company, as she had when they were very young children and the novelty of having a boy to play with amused her to no end. But he'd grown into such an unpleasant person, Sybil couldn't imagine herself choosing but to avoid him at all costs.

"I'm never anxious for my girls to grow up too fast," Sybil heard her mother say, giving Sybil a warm smile. Sybil wondered if her thoughts about Larry had been evident in her expression.

"And I think it's especially important at this age," Cora added, "to spend time with as many different friends as possible. Making new ones is so much harder the older we get."

Lady Merton's eyes narrowed ever so slightly. "I don't mean to suggest Sybil shouldn't make new friends, Cora, only that—"

Whatever Lady Merton intended to say was left a mystery as Carson announced that dinner had been served. Without another word, the party began moving toward the large dining room, and having allowed those who were older and of higher rank to proceed ahead of her, Sybil happily found herself walking next to Tom.

"Do you suppose that dinner has been served for a while now and that Carson was merely waiting until an especially awkward moment in the conversation, when someone might need rescuing, to announce it?" He asked cheekily.

Sybil laughed. "Now that you mention it, he does seem to appear at the most opportune moments. But if that is his approach, I must say he waits a bit too long sometimes. I can think of several of conversations he shouldn't have allowed to occur at all."

"Well, there's only so much he can do. I'm afraid the upper classes cannot always be saved from themselves."

"Do you ever need rescuing?"

"From an unpleasant conversation? No, but that's only because I prefer it when conversations become unpleasant."

"Why?"

"I find that politeness keeps people from saying what they really mean."

"But what if what they say is not to your liking?"

"Then I'll know their true character and be able to decide whether or not we can be friends."

Sybil smiled. "Does that mean you'd prefer me to be impolite with you?"

"I'd like your honesty, in whatever disposition you wish to package it."

"That's what I'd like as well."

The two looked at each other and smiled. When they got to the table, he stopped to allow her to walk in front of him to her seat. Just as she walked past him, he whispered just loud enough for her to hear, "Happy birthday."

The shivers his voice sent down her spine could be felt all through dinner.

Tom sat down between Cora and Rosamund, across the table, lengthwise, from where Sybil was between Larry and her father.

After everyone was seated, Robert offered a toast to his youngest daughter, which was followed by several anecdotes shared with affection by him, with one from Lord Merton, about Sybil as a young child. Sybil accepted the attention and gentle teasing with aplomb.

It was clear to Tom, even before Robert had mentioned that Lord Merton was Mary's godfather when they'd been introduced, that the Greys were very close friends of the Crawleys. And on overhearing Lady Merton's words to Sybil about her debut it was clear that at least some among the two families harbored hopes of a union between the Grey son and the youngest Crawley daughter.

Tom hadn't taken the time to consider whether Sybil had many male acquaintances. But seeing Larry on the sofa next to her upon arrival and seeing in Larry's eyes what felt like a possessive look after Tom and Sybil had exchanged smiles, it occurred to Tom that the line of young men who would jump at the opportunity to be near her was a long one—_of course, it was_—and that her romantic future was one on which too many people would feel entitled to have an opinion. He felt a fool for not arriving at those conclusions until now.

When Matthew had told Tom about the comment Mary had made, believing him out of earshot, about his possible intention to choose one of the Crawley daughters as his wife, Matthew said he found her words ridiculous. Tom disagreed. Sure, Lady Mary had her airs about her, but what she'd said regarding men's expectations of women like her, Edith and Sybil—women who were brought up for no purpose but to marry well—was painfully on point. Just because Matthew would not presume to impose himself on one of them didn't mean that the world, _their _world, wasn't full of men who would and did. It took very little time for Tom to realize that Larry Grey was one of these men.

When Larry had walked over to the hearth, he introduced himself to Matthew and made something of a show of ignoring Tom, launching into a long discourse to Matthew about life in Yorkshire and acting as if there wasn't another person standing right next to him. Robert and Lord Merton were standing a bit apart from the young men at that point and took no notice. Matthew threw Tom several puzzled looks in reference to Larry's behavior, wondering what disparaging assumption Larry had made about Tom that he hadn't also made about Matthew. Tom was too amused by Larry's act to try to break it by speaking to him directly.

Looking across the table at Larry now, as Larry tried to engage Sybil in conversation while Carson and Thomas took the serving plates around, she seemed disengaged, bored even.

Tom thought back to when she'd told him no one had ever asked her what her interests were. Thinking about it again, Tom felt a bit heartbroken on her behalf. In what Tom had seen of her, Sybil didn't seem unhappy, but it was clear that she wanted more than what her current life was giving her. Certainly, she deserved more.

_Nothing against the institution of marriage,_ Tom thought,_ but Sybil Crawley is not meant to be merely someone's wife. _

Tom glanced at Sybil's mother, sitting next to him on his right, and wondered the extent to which Cora, an American, had submitted to aristocratic ritual and the extent to which she would be willing to dismiss it on her daughters' behalf. He could only guess as to Cora's state of mind when she had married Robert and had been asked to sign over a fortune to people who, given the finances of the Grantham estate at the time, desperately needed it but still thought themselves her superiors in every way.

Cora caught Tom looking at her as she began to tuck into the first course and smiled at him. "Violet tells me you've taken up our cause."

"I have. In fact, I spent most of the day on it."

"Any promising leads?"

"I haven't spoken with Cousin Violet—"

Tom noticed Cora's eyes widening upon hearing him mention Violet in such familiar terms. He smiled and said, "She asked me to call her that."

"You should count yourself lucky. It usually takes years for Violet to warm up to people."

"I think it was part of her plan to convince me to help you."

"Well, if you are family to Isobel and Matthew, then you are to us," Cora said smiling warmly. "I'll be very insulted if you call Violet 'cousin' but not me."

"All right," Tom said with a smile.

"Now, about the case itself, let's take a moment after dinner to discuss it."

**XXX**

When the time came for the women to take their leave after dinner, Tom excused himself also and met Cora in the library.

Once they were both seated, Tom began.

"As I mentioned earlier, I haven't spoken with Cousin Violet since her visit this morning, but I have looked through every source. I'm afraid I haven't found much on which to base a challenge—at least not one that would be clear cut and simple to execute."

"What have you found?"

"There are three elements to the matter: the title, the estate, and the money. Nothing can be done about the title. On that matter, the law is clear. Matthew will be the next earl regardless of his financial status at the time of succession. In a way, that is probably the reason your father-in-law did what he did."

"I don't understand."

"I believe he wanted to assure the position of whoever bore the title. The estate, the second piece of the puzzle, does that to an extent, as the primary employer in the county, if you include both the full service staff and the tenant farms. But it's also a financial drain—at least it was, the way it was run in the past. The estate tied to the title by itself, without financial backing would put the family seat at risk. That's where the third piece, your fortune, comes in. If someone with no money were to inherit the title and estate, including Downton Abbey, he couldn't afford to do anything with it. The only recourse would be to sell. The late Lord Grantham likely knew this, which is why he took your money—"

"Tom, I gave it—"

"With due respect, Cousin Cora, he _took_ your money to save Downton at the time of your marriage. The deed of gift you signed legally turned everything over to him and meant the money was no longer yours. It was his to do with it as he pleased. So he tied it to the estate and the title to guarantee—at least as far as he could foresee—that whoever inherited the title after his son would also be a rich, landowner. I'm sorry to speak ill of the dead, but it was a very close-minded and selfish thing to do."

Cora smiled, sadly. "He thought he was doing it for his future grandson."

Tom let out a humorless laugh. "Do you really think there is anyone in this world who wouldn't trust a mother to leave what's hers to her own children?"

Cora furrowed her brow, so Tom went on, "Don't you see? If what is left of that money were still yours, you would leave it to your _daughters_. He wanted it to go to the heir, regardless of whether the heir was your son. That's why he asked you to turn it over to him. The funny thing is that if he were here now I believe even he would admit that it was done to preserve the dignity of the earldom. And he likely wouldn't apologize for it, not to an American and an Irishman."

"I suppose you think me foolish for signing it all over to him in the first place."

"I believe the saying is, 'We are all fools in love.' "

"And I was," Cora said with a smile.

"Was?"

"Am."

"I ask because the messy way to fight the entail would be to challenge the deed of gift, say you were not in your right mind when you signed it, and ask for what's left of your money to be returned to you."

"But Robert is the steward of the trust now. Wouldn't I be challenging him directly if we did that?"

"You would. That's why I call it a messy option."

Cora sighed. "Well, you were good to look into it for us."

"So that's where we're leaving it, then?"

"I can't challenge Robert, not like this. It's time to move forward, though I am frustrated that what I did then means I can't help my daughters now." Cora paused for a moment, then added. "I suppose your daughters will be better cared for."

Tom smiled. "Better taught to care for themselves."

Cora looked down at her hands and took a deep breath. When she looked back at Tom, there were tears welling in her eyes.

Tom put his hand over hers. "It wasn't your fault. Your father-in-law took advantage of your ignorance of the law and your assumption that he was acting in the best interest of your children, and not his own mercenary ends."

Cora swiped her cheek with her hand. "You don't like us very much, do you?"

"I like you very much, indeed," Tom said, warmly. "I dislike the social class system in this country. It teaches women and the poor not to question laws and etiquette that classify one group of people above all others with the intent to keep everyone else down."

"How do you reconcile that with helping Matthew with the estate?"

"I owe everything to Matthew and Aunt Isobel—and Uncle Reginald. They have exceedingly good hearts, otherwise they would never have . . ."

Tom stopped realizing what he was about to say.

"Never would have what, Tom?"

He took a deep breath. "They would never have made me part of their family."

Tom waited for Cora to ask the question. _Who is your real family? Where are you from? Who are your parents?_ He was prepared to answer truthfully.

But she didn't ask. Instead she took the hand he'd offered her into both of hers and squeezed it. "I'm glad that they did, and that they brought you to us."

Tom smiled. "Matthew will be a good steward of the estate, and he will run in it a way that benefits more than just those who live upstairs in the big house. That's our hope anyway."

Cora smiled. "And mine."

After a moment, she let go of his hand and stood. "We should head back to the party."

"Go ahead. I promised our butler Moseley I would borrow a book for him, if that's all right with you."

"Of course, but don't take too long."

"I won't."

"And don't worry about Violet. I'll tell her it's over."

After she'd gone, Tom sat back down for a moment. He'd come close to telling Cora and now that he was alone again, he wished he had. Who his mother was had never been a secret, but it was starting to feel like one. If he didn't tell someone, and soon, he wouldn't be able to deny that he was concealing it.

Pushing that thought out of his mind for the moment, he stood and walked over to the bookcase in which history books were shelved. He was about to take one when he heard a voice behind him.

"There you are!"

It was Sybil.

"What are you doing here?" She asked, walking over to where he was standing.

"I was talking to your mother. She'd asked me to review the entail one more time to ensure it really couldn't be undone."

"And the verdict?"

Tom shook his head.

"And why are you still here? You're not hiding from me are you?" Sybil asked, a playful expression on her face. "I'd like to discuss the book, and I've been waiting all day to do so."

"What did—"

Sybil grabbed Tom's arm suddenly. "Did you hear that?"

"Hear what?"

Both of them stood quietly for a moment, and sure enough, down the hall, the sound of someone calling Sybil could be heard moving closer.

"It's Larry. Let's hide!"

Sybil took Tom by the hand and ran toward her reading alcove at the far corner of the library.

Once inside, she stood by the entryway and listened as Larry walked in to the library called out her name once and walked back out.

Sybil let out a sigh of relief. She looked up at Tom and started laughing. "You must think me very rude to have done that."

"I trust he earned it," he said, clearly amused. "What is he to you, if you don't mind the question?"

Sybil thought for a minute. "We played together as children, all the games Mary and Edith wouldn't play with me. He was quite fun, then, but he's grown positively insufferable. I suppose he's a friend, though not much of one. His mother certainly wishes we were more." At that last point, Sybil rolled her eyes.

Tom looked around the small cozy sitting area. "This is a handy getaway spot."

"I like to come in here to read. It's how I get away from the world."

Tom smiled at her. Sybil looked into his eyes for a long moment before the intensity of his stare became a bit overwhelming. When she looked down, she realized she was still holding his hand. Seeing her notice, he looked down and saw it too, and sensing a bit of nervousness in her, he let go. Sybil smiled and sat down on the window seat.

"So what did you think of it?" He asked.

"The book? Oh, it was terrific. So well written and intelligent and stirring and—I have so many thoughts in my head and no way to organize them, which is terrible seeing as her arguments came together so easily."

"I doubt she would say the writing of it was easy, but I agree that it is a very well thought out treatise."

"I could only dream of ever having so many interesting things to say." She stopped on seeing his wide grin. "What?"

"I told you you'd have no trouble understanding it."

"Well, I think that's because it felt like she was speaking directly to me."

"That's the mark of a good author, but don't sell yourself short. It's not an easy read by any means. Did any of it surprise you?"

"I was surprised by how often habits and customs that are well meaning aren't really. What I mean to say is, so much of what men do for women is done so things are easier for us, so as not to burden our more feeble compositions, but Miss Wollstonecraft argued that we are weaker precisely because these very rules do not allow us to experience the world as we should, as equal human beings."

"And what did you think about that?"

Sybil thought for a moment, with a serious and challenging expression on her face. "It made me want to break every rule there is."

And just like that the concern Tom had had just an hour or so before about Sybil being forced to be merely someone's wife evaporated. Because the woman before him now was ready to make of herself whatever she wanted.

"There was something else," she added quietly.

"What's that?"

"Before dinner, when you said you wanted my honesty, and I told you I wanted the same from you . . . "

"Yes."

"Miss Wollstonecraft wrote about how the rituals of courtship diminish women because they turn us into objects of desire rather than real people."

Tom's heart rate started to speed up. Sybil looked down at her hands and continued, "Well, I was thinking . . . I would like for you to see me as . . . um, not as someone you'd like to court, but as a true and equal friend." She paused, then asked, her voice barely above a whisper, "Would that be all right?"

His response matched hers in volume. "You deserve nothing less."

Tom looked at her for a long moment then took a deep breath. "You asked me how it was that I came to support women's rights," he said. "It's because of the plight of women who have very little and, if they are unmarried or widowed, have little recourse for help. When my father died, I was a year old, and my mother had almost nothing with which to support me."

"So she sought help from Cousin Matthew's parents?"

"Yes."

Sybil furrowed her brow. "Where is she now?"

Tom smiled. "Having a cup of tea in her sitting room, I imagine."

"Do you wish you could see her?"

"I see her everyday."

Sybil looked puzzled. "How?"

"She's Matthew and Aunt Isobel's housekeeper."

Sybil's eyes widened in shock.

"The Crawleys raised me as their middle class son, but the truth is that I am the child of a servant. I'm telling you because I do want to be your friend, and a true and honest and equal friendship, as I, too, hope ours can be, shouldn't begin under false pretenses."

Sybil's expression of shock turned into a soft smile, one for which Tom was deeply grateful. "Thank you for trusting me with your secret."

"It's not a secret," he said. "I don't mean for it to be, anyway. If you wanted to tell your family, you could."

"It's your truth to share not mine, but I won't think less of you if you don't. I promise."

As they looked at one another, Tom grew in Sybil's estimation for the gentleman he clearly was and the gentleman he and those who loved him had made him into.

Finally, she stood and said, "I suppose we should go back."

"Go ahead."

"Aren't you coming?"

Tom smiled. "I'll follow in a minute. I believe that if your wish is to avoid Mr. Grey's attentions, it's best that we not enter the parlor together."

Sybil looked confused for a moment, but then his implication—that Larry would be jealous—became clear and a hint of blush appeared on her cheeks. She turned to go, but then at the alcove entryway she stopped and faced Tom again.

"What I said before about us being friends. I didn't mean that I don't want something else in future."

Before he had a chance to respond, she was gone.


	13. Chapter 13

_Thank you so much, everyone, for all the very nice reviews (and the follows and favorites) and for going with me "through the looking glass" into this alternate version of Downton Abbey. Series one, episode three action begins in this chapter and Gwen features heavily. There's lots of repurposed dialogue. I've spaced out the timeline of the canon events to fit in the parts of this story that are my invention and to make it flow like an at least somewhat cohesive narrative. _

_Quick note before we begin: I listened to Edith say the Napier family title at least a dozen times and couldn't make it out, so I wrote in "Bramson" when writing Chapter 12 as a placeholder, intending to look it up and correct it. But of course, I forgot. It's Branksome. It's now been corrected. _

* * *

The day after Sybil's birthday, preparations for the move back to Downton Abbey began in earnest. The next day, the family would be leaving for London, where they would stay for a week while the belongings they would be taking back to the big house could be moved, and while Carson and Mrs. Hughes completed the hiring of additional help.

For just about everyone in the house, thoughts were on a mix of the future and the past—what life at Downton would be like after a year away, whether its former glory would ever be recaptured, and whether the friends who had been left behind would be there upon the return to a full staff.

The exception was Sybil, who was at her desk writing in her diary early that morning, mind firmly on the present and on Downton Place.

Sybil was sure she would be the only member of the family—and the only person among the staff, as well—who would miss living there. And she would miss it dearly. How could she not? The last year of her life had been a formative one, and everything she'd learned, every thought, every feeling had emerged from how much less restricted and how much more herself she had felt there.

Sybil was not sad, exactly, to be returning to a place she knew made her parents and sisters so happy to call home, but she couldn't help but acknowledge to herself that as a child, she sometimes found the sheer size of Downton Abbey oppressive and unwelcoming. To the young, imaginative girl she'd been once, it was like an endless maze of rooms—with one of an army of servants, most of them perfect strangers to her, lurking around every corner—at the end of which a monster was waiting to swallow her whole. The house, along with all the things in it, belonged to her family. But no part of it felt hers. Had the family never left, Sybil's attitude would have changed as she matured. Indeed, like her sisters, she would have grown to love the house, accepting in some measure—with adjustments to her more progressive frame of mind, of course—the lifestyle and the attitude the grand house demanded of its inhabitants.

But the family _had _left. And they'd come to _this_ house, which was smaller, but not lesser, not to Sybil. She considered cozy and inviting what her family saw only as cramped. She found new freedoms and opportunities to be her own person in the reduction of servants, where her family saw only inconveniences. She treasured the solitude that stemmed from the absence of visitors and guests, where her family saw the judgment and subsequent loneliness that comes from misfortune. The rift in perspective was attributed by her parents and sisters to Sybil's youth, a rebellious spirit that would be tamed by age and time. But she knew it to be more than that. Because thus far, her rebellions—if one could even call them that—were rebellions of thought, not action. They were not bouts of petty misbehavior in service to a restless spirit or a desire to upset the balance for the sake of raising the ire of those around her. She was a rebel anxious for a cause. Life at Downton Place had taught her that, and it was a lesson for which she, now at the end of her time there, was grateful. So while Downton Place would always have a special place in her heart, she did not dread her return to Downton Abbey because she knew herself now in a way she did not before.

Having finished putting her thoughts to paper, which she'd done while still in her nightdress, Sybil stood to change. As she was going through her wardrobe, Anna came into the room.

"Oh, good morning, milady. I just came in to open the curtains. I expected you'd be sleeping in after your birthday dinner last night."

Sybil smiled. "I want to make the most of our last full day here."

With the curtains open, Anna took a tentative step toward Sybil, who was stepping into her corset with the lacings in front. "May I help, milady?

"No," Sybil said. "I've grown quite adept at this. Watch." Sybil pulled the corset up and began tightening the lacings carefully, with it still on backwards. Once she was satisfied it was tight enough to wear but still sufficiently loose to shift into place, she carefully pulled on one side of it to bring the front forward. Then, she tugged her slip downward to straighten it and gave the corset's lacings, now behind her, one more pull before tying them off.

Finished, she turned to Anna. "Ta da!"

Anna smiled. "Very nicely done, though I'm afraid if her ladyship had walked in I might have been sacked for not stepping in to do it for you."

"I would have happily explained that you have greater tasks with which to concern yourself," Sybil said laughing.

"Well, since you're up, I'll start with the fireplace now. That is if you don't mind, milady."

"Not at all," Sybil said, now buttoning the blouse she'd chosen for the day. "Gwen usually does the curtains in my room. Is she not feeling well today?"

"She's fine. Took the morning to go into the village. I believe she was going to the post office."

Sybil, of course, knew Gwen was not sick but wanted to ask as to her whereabouts without drawing suspicion. Gwen had wanted to finish the final lesson of her correspondence course before she and Sybil snuck the typewriter back to Sybil's room ahead of the move. But with only one night left to do it, Sybil wanted to ensure Gwen had found the time for the task. If Gwen was at the post office, as Anna reported, then she had completed the lesson, and tonight would be the night.

"I trust your birthday was enjoyable," Anna said as Sybil walked over to her vanity to brush her hair.

"It was, thank you."

"Did you receive any especially exciting gifts?"

"They were all very nice, though none I'd call _exciting_."

"I would expect at this age, you're receiving mostly jewels, right? I seem to remember that in the year before Lady Mary and Lady Edith had their coming out."

Sybil turned to Anna, who was finishing up with the fire. "You guessed exactly right! There was only one gift that was not a new necklace or earrings."

"And what was that?"

"A book about plant life in Yorkshire called _Flora Eboracensis_ from Cousins Isobel and Matthew and Mr. Branson. I'd expressed an interest in botany in conversation."

"A thoughtful gift, then, and appropriate given your love of reading."

Sybil smiled. "It was very thoughtful. The jewels were nice too, and I'm sure I'll make use of them when my season comes around." Sybil turned back to the mirror and sighed. "Anna?"

"Yes, milady."

"I'm afraid I'm still a bit rubbish at this part." With a grimace, she pointed to the messy bun she'd pulled her hair into.

Anna smiled widely and walked behind her. "Are you looking forward to it, your season, I mean?" Anna asked as she began working Sybil's hair into a neater presentation.

"I am. It's still more than a year away, though, so at this point the anticipation is more out of curiosity about the whole thing than a desire to find a husband. I suppose that makes me odd."

"I would say it makes you who you are, and somewhere out there is a man who will want to marry you just for that."

Sybil laughed. "Thank you."

Once Anna had finished with her hair, Sybil left her to finish in her room, taking the book Isobel, Matthew and Tom had given her with her. Seeing nobody else down for breakfast yet, she proceeded to the library to drop the book off in her alcove for reading later in the morning.

As she stepped inside, the memories of her encounter with Tom there the evening before came back to her and she sat down in the window seat with a happy sigh. Sybil laughed at herself, recollecting how brazenly she had pulled Tom into the alcove and thrown off all convention when it came to what others might consider appropriately feminine behavior, first asking him to treat her as his equal and then, boldest of all, declaring friendship only the beginning of what she hoped was to come between them.

_No doubt granny would have blanched at those last words, _Sybil thought. _But what other words were there to say?_

To Sybil, since she'd first laid eyes on him outside Crawley House, Tom had proven himself a delightfully and determinedly radical thinker, sincere in his convictions. But even so, when she had asked that he give her the honesty of a friend instead of the flattery of an admirer, she hadn't been sure how he'd respond. So when he answered her by offering the single biggest truth he had to give, though his intent had not been to elevate himself significantly in her esteem, in allowing her to see him and know him as he really was, that had been the outcome. Nobody had ever leveled with Sybil, trusted her, so completely before. She knew immediately, of course, and with some shame, that the revelation would be disconcerting to some in her family. But that knowledge did not change things for her—and as she stood to walk out of the alcove she realized that she needed him to know that. And so she'd said the words.

_ "What I said before about us being friends. I didn't mean that I don't want something else in future."_

Bold. Too bold, perhaps. But it had felt good to say. Better than any feeling she'd felt in the whole of her seventeen years.

The thrill of it coursed through her again as she relived the moment in her mind. Sybil hugged the book she was holding to her chest, not doubting that _he_ had chosen it for her even though it had been presented as being from the whole family. It was not likely to be as enthralling as the last he'd suggested, but she figured that he'd selected it under the assumption that she'd be opening presents in front of everyone—as indeed had been the case.

Sybil opened the book on her lap now and had just begun to leaf through it when she noticed an enveloped stuck to one of the inside the pages. She carefully pried it off and opened it. Inside there was a slip of paper with what was now familiar handwriting.

_Where your last hunt ended, a new treasure awaits. _

Leaving the botany book on the window seat, Sybil quickly made her way over to the shelf where she'd found A Vindication of the Rights of Women. She stuck her hand behind the row of books and let out a happy yelp when she felt something there. She pulled out another book and immediately opened the front cover, where she found another note waiting for her.

_Lady Sybil,_

_Nonfiction takes us through the known, and fiction through the unknown. I suggested you venture through nonfiction for your education, but in truth both journeys matter if life is to be lived fully. This work was written by the daughter of Mary Wollstonecraft. I hope it proves sufficiently unconventional. Happy birthday._

_Your friend, T. Branson _

Sybil turned to the title page and read the title aloud, "Frankenstein or the Modern Prometheus." She smiled and looking at the note again, ran her fingers over his writing.

After a moment, she walked back over to the alcove and set this book down where she'd left the other and folded both notes into the pocket of her skirt. Looking around the tiny space, she suddenly felt tears prick the back of her eyes. She would miss this room, but now she had another treasured memory of it to cherish, and two books to lose herself in on this last day she'd be able to enjoy it.

**XXX**

Later that morning, as Gwen was making her way back to her room, having successfully sent off her final lesson, she couldn't help but feel a bit nervous. Running into Mr. Bates at the post office had set her a bit on edge. There was no real reason for it, of course. There was nothing wrong with her wishing to post something.

_What nefarious thing would Mr. Bates have to suspect?_

Deep down, though, she knew that with the last lesson now out of her hands, the idea of being a secretary was no longer a pipe dream but a real possibility that was within her grasp, so long as she had the courage to reach out for it. For it was one thing to take lessons in secret. It would be quite another to put herself out there, to ask someone to take a chance on her, and—her biggest fear of all—to reveal her aspirations to her colleagues and current employers, people who bristled at that word, _aspiration_. Nefarious, indeed.

Gwen was so lost in thought as she walked into her room that she was startled to find Anna there, standing on a chair by their cupboard and trying to move a box. _That _box. Suddenly, the fear that had been pooling in her stomach since she'd since Mr. Bates started coursing wildly through the whole of her.

"What are you doing?" She asked Anna anxiously.

Anna sighed, clearly exasperated. "If you must know, I'm trying to bring my things down from the top of the cupboard to make life easier for packing this week." She climbed down from the chair and looked at Gwen squarely in the eyes with a challenging expression. "So what's in it then?"

"What?" Gwen was wracking her brain for a way to deflect attention.

"That bleeding packing case that weighs a ton, that's what!"

"Can't you just leave it?"

"No, I can't, and you'll tell me right now!"

As she quietly climbed onto the chair, Gwen felt tears welling in her eyes, unable to hold back the feeling that her dreams were bursting before her eyes. Carefully, she lifted the case, brought it over to the table by her bed and opened it. She turned to Anna, whose face softened into a smile. Gwen let out a grateful sigh of relief, remembering that she did not have to fear judgment in Anna.

Anna stepped up to the typewriter and put her fingers over the keys. "It's a typewriter, yes?"

Gwen nodded.

"How much did it cost?"

"Every penny I'd saved. Al—almost."

"And is this the mystery lover?"

Gwen smiled. "Well, I've been taking a correspondence course in typing and shorthand. That's what was in the envelopes."

"Are you any good?"

"Yes. I am, actually."

Anna was about to say something else when the door opened. Both women instinctively moved to hide the typewriter behind them. It was Miss O'Brien. Gwen felt her fear begin to pulse through her all over again.

The lady's maid, wearing her usual stern expression, looked between Anna and Gwen for several moments before speaking.

"Her ladyship wants the full skirt Lady Mary never wears. A seamstress is going to fit it to Lady Sybil, but I can't find it."

"I'll come in a minute," Anna responded, hoping it would be enough to send the nosy O'Brien off, but knowing it wouldn't be.

"They're waiting now," was O'Brien's impatient response.

"One minute," Anna insisted. "I'm just changing my cap and apron."

O'Brien looked at them both again, and tilted her head as if to try to spy what they were guarding, but eventually gave up and left. Anna moved to close the door.

Turning back to Gwen, she asked, "Have you told anyone?"

"Only Lady Sybil. She's been very supportive. She helped me get it in here."

"How exactly did you manage it?"

"The parcel was first sent to Lady Sybil. She made an excuse to his lordship as to its contents. Then, she helped me bring it up to the attic one night several months ago."

"And I slept through it all?" Anna asked with an incredulous smile on her face.

Gwen nodded and laughed. "I'd been prepared to tell you, but since you didn't wake I figured I wouldn't burden you with such a secret."

"What do your parents say?"

"Well, I can't tell them till I've got a job. Dad will think I'm a fool to leave a good place and Mum will say I'm getting above myself, but . . . but I don't believe that."

Anna smiled. "Nor do I. And it will mean something to them that you have Lady Sybil's support."

Gwen sighed. "We shall see."

**XXX**

Late in the afternoon, walking through the house on her last day as its mistress, Cora smiled to herself as she thought of the varying ways her daughters were responding to this change in their lives. Edith was in her room preoccupied with what clothes she'd take to London and what she would leave in the trunks to be transported to Downton Abbey. Sybil, naturally, had holed herself up with a book in her favorite corner of the library, declaring to her mother when Cora had discovered her there that she'd not leave the spot until it was time to change for dinner. Mary, Anna had told Cora, had gone for a walk on the grounds. This was no surprise either. Mary had always been fond of walking about the grounds when her mind felt especially full.

Now knowing, thanks to Tom's diligent work, that the question of the entail had to be put behind them, and eager to ease her eldest daughter's mind regarding what would come next, Cora put on her coat and hat and headed out to look for her.

It didn't take her long to find Mary, seated at a bench on the path leading away from the gardens at the back of the house. As she approached, Cora saw that Mary was reading a letter.

"Anything interesting?"

Mary turned to see her mother, whom she'd heard approach. Mary supposed she could be coy about the letter, hold the possibilities it presented close to her chest, but at this stage, what would be the point? Her mother and grandmother were going to meddle regardless.

"Not particularly," Mary answered. "It's from Evelyn Napier. You met him at the Delta Fields last November at Doncaster Races."

Cora perked up at the mention of the young man she remembered as sweet and handsome. "Is that Lord Branksome's boy?"

"It is."

"Do you like him?" Cora asked quietly, sitting down, not wanting to put Mary off by seeming too eager.

"I don't dislike him."

Cora smiled at her daughter's commitment to stoicism and inscrutability. "And what's he writing about?"

"Oh, nothing much. He's out with the York and Ainsty in November. The meet is at Downton. He knows we will be back by then and wants some tea when he's up there."

"Where's he staying? With friends?"

Mary knew where her answer would lead. "He says he's found a pub that caters for hunting."

"Oh, we can improve on that—he must stay with us at Downton! He can send the horses up early, if he wants. We can ensure the stables are ready."

"He'll know why you're asking him."

Cora widened her eyes every so slightly, hopeful the lie would land softly. "I can't think what you mean. His mother is a friend of mine. She'll be pleased at the idea." It was a silly ruse, but sorely needed. This was the most Mary had ever done on her own behalf, and Cora wanted to prod her forward gently.

Of course, her daughter saw right through it. "Not very pleased," Mary said. "She's dead."

Cora smiled. "All the more reason, then. You can write a note, too, and put it in with mine."

Mary sighed. She'd wanted to tread carefully with Evelyn, know his mind a bit more before making her interest so plain, but she could see now that the battle for subtlety was lost. Her mother would not back down.

"Should I tell him about your friendship with his late mother?"

Cora stood to leave. "I'm sure you of all people can compose a letter to a young man without any help from me."

Cora walked back toward the house hopeful for the first time in a while with regard to Mary's prospects. Mary was a beautiful woman—Cora often thought too beautiful. Patrick had known her all of her life and had grown accustomed to Mary's beauty. He was not intimidated by it. But it was not so with other men. Her first season had been a success, the ones that followed too, but they'd also quietly revealed a chilling truth: the prettiest girl in the room was also at times the loneliest. She did not suspect that had been the reason Mary and Matthew did not get along, but Violet's notion of their union seemed a farfetched one at this point. Neither showed any inclination toward the other, and Cora knew better than to force it—even if Violet and Robert might continue to insist on it.

Cora looked back, and the image of Mary alone on that bench made Cora think of how lonely Mary might have been these past months without the man she'd intended to marry and without the fortune that would have secured another favorable match. Cora wondered briefly what her own life might have been like if the money that Robert had married her for had been taken away from her, as ruthlessly as British law had taken it from Mary. It would have been a different life entirely. The thought scared Cora to her core.

And it was that very emotion—fear—that hid behind the stoic wall Mary had built around her heart. Nobody sensed it in her. _But that_, Mary thought, _was for the best_.

Cora returned to the house to find Violet in the parlor with Robert. Violet had come, no doubt, to discuss Tom's findings regarding the entail, but that topic would have to wait with Robert present. So Cora proceeded to fill them in about Mary's correspondence with Mr. Napier and her own intention to invite him to Downton Abbey.

"Explain, again, how you managed it." Violet said after a while, still skeptical that Mary herself would be so forward.

"As I said, it's not of my doing," Cora replied. "It's all Mary's own work, but I think we should encourage it."

"Branksome's a dull dog, but I don't suppose that matters," Robert put in.

"Did you know his wife had died?" Cora asked.

"He only ever talks about racing," Robert said with a roll of his eyes.

Violet sighed. "Cora is right. Mary won't take Matthew Crawley, so we'd better get her settled before the bloom is quite gone off the rose."

"Is the family an old one?" Cora asked, not particularly interested in the answer, but knowing that if there was an objection in her mother-in-law's mind it would be on this matter.

Violet, seeing through Cora's question, replied with her usual cheek. "Older than yours I imagine."

"Old enough," Robert confirmed.

"And there's plenty of money," Cora said, knowing this much to be true.

"Oh, really?" Violet asked.

Cora nodded and looked at Robert who said with a hint of impatience in his tone, "Mama, you've already looked him up in the stud books and made inquiries about the fortune, don't pretend otherwise. Are you afraid someone will think you're American if you speak openly?"

"I doubt it'll come to that."

Satisfied that they were all in agreement, Cora asked, "Shall I ring for tea?"

"No, not for me," Robert said. "I'm meeting Cripps at five. I'll see you at dinner."

With that Robert left the two women alone.

Turning back to Violet, Cora noticed a skeptical expression on her face. "You don't seem very pleased."

"I'm pleased. It's not brilliant, but I'm pleased."

"So you don't have a problem with Evelyn Napier?"

"I don't want Robert to use a marriage as an excuse to stop fighting for Mary's inheritance," Violet said finally.

Cora sighed. "It won't make any difference. You know he doesn't have the slightest intention of fighting as it is. The price of saving Downton is to accept Matthew Crawley as his heir."

"What about you?"

"I don't dislike Matthew. In fact, I rather admire him. Him and Tom both."

"Is that sufficient reason to give them your money?"

"First of all, Matthew is getting it, not Tom. And no it isn't sufficient reason, but what recourse do I have?"

"Did Tom not offer an alternative? You spoke on the matter last night, didn't you?"

"Yes, he explained everything, and quite thoroughly. There is a path, but it is one we cannot take."

"Oh?"

"It would create a rift among us, Violet, or specifically between Robert and I. Robert has made his position clear on wanting to move forward with Matthew, and anyway the sum that would go to Mary, diminished as it is, isn't worth the pain it would cause."

"Are you so certain?"

"I am."

Violet rolled her eyes. "And so Downton Abbey will be a middle class man's domain."

Cora was used to Violet's attitude and opinions, but this could not go unremarked upon, not after the way Tom had opened her eyes last night as to the true author of the family's current circumstances and his true motivations.

"Do not blame him, please," she said. "It wasn't Matthew who created this situation it was _your_ husband."

Violet whipped around to Cora, a rebuke was on the tip of her tongue, but she thought better of it. "Then there's nothing more to be said," she said sternly. "Are we going to have tea or not?"

Cora stood to ring the bell, a knowing smile on her face. It wasn't often that Violet held herself back. Cora knew that Violet would never admit her husband had acted wrongly, but having backed away from the argument just now was as much an admission of his guilt as anything Violet would ever do or say. As Cora pulled on the bell, she allowed herself a moment to cherish the victory.

A short while later, Mrs. Hughes brought up the tea up. Once both ladies had been served, she stepped up to Cora.

"Is there something wrong, Mrs. Hughes?" Cora asked.

"Well, I hate to trouble you, your ladyship, but there's a bit of a situation downstairs."

"Oh, goodness! What could it be?"

"It's to do with Gwen."

**XXX**

On the rare nights she went to bed feeling buoyantly hopeful, usually after a long talk with Lady Sybil, Gwen allowed herself to lie in bed and picture the day she would hand in her notice to Mrs. Hughes. The day she'd tell her that she was leaving for a job as a secretary.

_There is nothing wrong with service, _Gwen would say. _Simply, it's not for me. I want something else. Not something more, per se, just something else._

Mrs. Hughes would smile kindly and wish her well. There might be some skepticism in her eyes, but Gwen would know it was not ill-intended. Mrs. Hughes had seen her fair share of housemaids come and go, but at the end of the day she would be supportive of Gwen.

That's how Gwen had always pictured it. But that was not what had happened this afternoon.

After she and Anna had sent O'Brien off, Gwen thought that perhaps that would be the end of it. Anna would keep her secret and everything would be as it had been before. But it was not to be. O'Brien had shamelessly broken Gwen's privacy and laid out Gwen's dreams for the rest of the staff to poke at.

As she went about her duties, after that terrible confrontation with everyone, Gwen couldn't shake the image of the typewriter sitting on the dining table in the servants' hall, all of them crowded around it. The memory of it, so fresh in her mind still, made her stomach ache with shame. Her knickers could have been laid out there in the same fashion and she'd not feel worse. What was worse, after all, than your most closely guarded dream, known only to your best friend, being laid bare in that way to be judged by those who would, in turn, feel judged by you for having such a dream, despite you entreaties to the contrary? They way they had all looked at her, some whom she would even call her friends, had made her feel small. And now, even hours later, though she'd gone on with her work as best she could, she felt unable to recover from it.

Knowing it was close to the dinner hour, Gwen made her way to Sybil's room, having asked Anna earlier if she could dress her tonight, needing a friendly shoulder to lean on. Finding the room was empty upon her arrival, Gwen sat on the bed for a moment to collect herself. But alas, being in the room where so many of her dreams had been nurtured had the opposite effect.

Gwen hadn't been there for more than a few minutes, when Anna came in with a basket of Sybil's laundered clothes. Anna was so preoccupied with putting the clothes away, it took her several minutes to realize that Gwen was crying. Anna quickly walked over to her friend and put a comforting hand on her shoulder.

"Gwen? Whatever's the matter?"

The tears Gwen had been trying to hold back became sobs.

"Hey, come on. It's all right." Anna sat down next to Gwen, and began to gently stroke her back in an effort to calm her down.

"What's happened?" It was Mr. Bates, peaking in from the hall. Robert's dinner clothes were draped across his arm. He'd been on his way to Robert's dressing room when he'd heard Gwen's crying.

Both Gwen and Anna turned to the door, where he remained, with a look of concern on his face. "Oh . . . oh, I'm just being silly," Gwen said, now calmer, but still clearly agitated. "You should get that brushed," she said referring to the clothes on Bates' arm.

Bates came into the room and closed the door behind him to give Gwen a bit of privacy. "He won't be up for another half an hour. Now, what is it?"

Gwen sighed, sadly. "Well, I suppose I've just realized that it's not going to happen."

"What isn't?" Bates asked.

"None of it. I'm not going to be a secretary. I'm not going to leave service. I doubt I'll leave here before I'm sixty."

"Hey, what's all this?" Anna exclaimed. "You said you were good at that stuff. What's changed since this morning?"

"Oh, you saw their faces," Gwen said, unable to hold back the torrent of self-pity that had been welling since that dreadful scene in the kitchen. "And they're right. Oh, look at me! I'm the daughter of a farmhand. I'm lucky to be a maid. I was born with nothing, and I'll die with nothing."

"Don't talk like that," Bates said encouragingly. "You can change your life if you want to. Sometimes you have to be hard on yourself, but you can change it completely, I know."

But Gwen could not reply.

Turning to Anna, Bates said. "Take her upstairs. Dry her off."

Anna gently guided Gwen up to their room. Once there, Gwen was calm, but there was a look of utter dejection on her face. "How pathetic am I?" She asked looking at her feet.

Anna grabbed her hands. "Not at all. Forget Miss O'Brien. She just wants everyone to be as sour as she is. Don't let go of this dream, not if it's what you really want."

Gwen sighed, but said nothing.

"All right, now buck up! Go down and wait for Lady Sybil. She'll need changing soon anyway, and she'll offer some encouragement."

"That's because nothing's impossible for their lot. It's different for us."

"That may be true, but if she is your friend, you owe her the truth at least. Mrs. Hughes has told her ladyship, so they'll be talking about it at dinner. Better that she know that."

"I suppose you're right."

But when Sybil finally made it back to her room to change and Gwen filled her in on what had happened, Sybil offered Gwen no encouragement. She was much too angry at O'Brien and much too busy cursing the odious maid for sticking her nose where it didn't belong to take time to offer Gwen comfort. But the truth was, Sybil's ridiculous display of ire, capped by a long rant against women who keep other women down, had been so amusing for Gwen to watch, that it actually did the trick. Gwen still felt a little disheartened, but no longer completely defeated. She was even ready to find her tragic discovery's silver lining.

She said as much to Sybil.

"I'm glad you're feeling better, Gwen," Sybil said, still in a huff, "but it will be some time before I can look at her without wanting to—"

Gwen laughed, heartily, before interrupting what was sure to be another diatribe. "Truly, milady, it's fine."

Sybil sighed, and smiled. "Are you sure? I have half a mind to tell mama to give her the sack."

"There's no need for that. To be honest, it feels a bit like a weight's been lifted. I wish it hadn't happened like that, but now that everyone knows, I don't have to hide it, and, well, hiding does suggest there is some shame in what one is doing, and I don't feel that. Not anymore."

"Good, because you shouldn't." Sybil looked at her friend, and she did look happier than she had only a few moments ago. "I suppose this means we won't need to transport it back to my room tonight."

"I'm glad for that. The first time was nerve-wracking enough."

Sybil laughed. "Whereas I was looking forward to one last adventure here."

**XXX**

Isobel, Matthew and Tom had been invited over for the second time in as many nights, to help the family mark their last day at Downton Place. Once they'd entered the drawing room to wait for dinner with the family, they were quickly appraised as to the events below stairs. The topic carried over to the dinner table.

"I don't understand," Violet said. "Why—why would she want to be a secretary?"

"She wants a different life," Matthew offered.

"But why?" Violet insisted. "I should far prefer to be a maid in a large and pleasant house than work from dawn till dusk in a cramped and gloomy office. Don't you agree, Carson?"

Carson, who'd been standing by his spot near the head of the table answered, "I do, milady."

Mary rolled her eyes, now growing increasingly tired of the conversation. "Why are we talking about this? What does it matter?"

"It matters that the people that live and work here are content," Cora said.

"I find it curious that you take her initiative as a personal affront," Tom put in.

Robert sighed, but with a smile. "What could you possibly mean, Tom?"

"Well, the young lady seems to want to take her life in a new direction. Cousin Cora and Cousin Violet believe her actions reflect poorly on the family. And I am forced to wonder why you think her wishes have anything to do with you."

"We're her employers," Robert said. "If she is dissatisfied with her job, it _does_ reflect badly on us."

"But why should it? If that dissatisfaction stems not from the job itself but from having been given no alternatives to it. She is perfectly within her rights to wish to do something different with her life, and she has no reason to be ashamed of such a wish. You force shame on her by harping only on how it's all going to affect you, when there's likely dozens available to take up the job once she leaves." Tom cheekily turned to Carson. "Or is a seamless transition impossible in this situation, Carson?"

"Not at all, Mr. Branson," Carson said in the huffy delivery he reserved for the young firebrand.

"Your point is well taken, Tom," Cora said with teasing a smile, then turning to her daughter, added, "but I'd appreciate it if you didn't rile up any more of the staff, Sybil. The transition back to Downton is going to be hard enough."

"But we have full confidence in you, Carson," Robert added for the benefit of the butler.

"Thank you, milord."

"I agree with Tom, and I plan to continue to help Gwen if that's what she wants," Sybil said, in response to her mother. "There's nothing wrong with it."

"Nothing wrong at all," Isobel said, wanting to support the young lady, knowing she was alone among her immediate family in her opinions. "Surely we must all encourage those less fortunate to improve their lot where they can."

"Not if it isn't in their best interests!" Violet exclaimed, not ready to concede defeat on the topic.

"Isn't the maid a better judge of that than we are?" Isobel retorted.

"What do you say, Cousin Matthew?" Edith spoke up. "Should our housemaid be kept enslaved or forced out into the world?"

"It seems to me, her crime is but to have ambition."

"Ambition can be a dangerous thing," Mary said, surprising Matthew. They were the first words she'd directed to him in some time.

"True, but I see no danger in it here," Matthew responded. "When she's ready to leave, she should be allowed. The law permits it."

"But perhaps the law should not permit it, for the common good," Violet said.

Isobel laughed. "So, you hanker for the days of serfdom."

"I hanker for a simpler world. Is that a crime?"

"Nothing in this world is ever simple," Tom said. "Not if it involves human emotion—and surely you can agree that everything does."

"I suppose you like things to be complicated, don't you, Tom? After all what is the definition of revolution if not messy and needless complication."

"Indeed, Cousin Violet. For me, the messier the better."

The rest of the family laughed as Tom and Violet's banter continued throughout the evening. It was a dinner that Sybil would remember as worthy of the house that hosted it.

**XXX**

In the drawing room after dinner, Mary, Sybil and Tom chatted about the family's upcoming trip to London, when Cora called Mary over (_Bless her_, Sybil thought) to ask her something about Mr. Napier's upcoming visit to Downton Abbey.

Sybil took the chance to thank Tom for his secret gift.

He grinned, happy that she had discovered it. "I half feared when I hid it that you might not bother opening the first book and see the note until after you'd left here."

"I didn't discover it until this morning, I admit, but I'd committed to spend my last day here reading in my alcove, and I never leave new books unopened for too long, so I was always going to find it."

"Have you started it?"

"No, I stuck to the botany book today. I'm saving the novel for our train ride to London."

"I have no sense of your tolerance for the macabre, so I hope it doesn't put you off."

"Macabre? I'm now more intrigued than ever!" She said, excitedly.

He laughed at her enthusiasm.

"Thank you, also, for your help at dinner, speaking up for Gwen," she said.

"I'd have spoken up regardless, but I'm more glad to have done it now that I know it was in support of your scheme."

Sybil blushed. "I haven't really done anything except help Gwen sneak the typewriter into the servants quarters. She's done all the work—for her course, I mean."

"It's good of you to encourage her. Given the odds she faces, I doubt Gwen would call that nothing."

"Mama and granny probably wish I'd stay out of it."

"Well, you have me on your side, whatever that's worth to you."

"Very much," Sybil said quietly. Then, her smile growing, she added, "This is terribly wicked of me to say, but I do enjoy seeing how riled up granny gets when she spars with you at the dinner table."

Tom laughed. "I must admit I enjoy it a little too much myself. At Crawley House, Aunt Isobel and I agree too heartily on most things to ever have an entertaining argument. Conversations in which the parties are all of the same mind are not nearly so interesting as ones in which they aren't."

Sybil smiled. "Neither granny nor papa will ever come around to our way of thinking, so there will never be a dull moment when we're back at Downton."

Tom smiled inwardly. _Our._


	14. Chapter 14

_Thanks, as always, for reading, reviewing and all that good stuff._

_This chapter takes place just before the family returns from London and the actual day of return. I know that things are moving slowly, but as I've said, this is going to be a long story, and there are still several things that I want to set up—the last major one, having to do with the running of the estate, starts in this chapter. Trust me, I am as anxious to get to the heart of the S/T story as you are :)_

_Also, there are several storylines that happen to the downstairs crew on the show (such as Bates getting a limp corrector) that I am not going to bother with since trying to recreate every element would just bog down the story and slow things down ever more. I will throw in references to anything that has a tangential effect on the main action in this story._

_Enjoy!_

* * *

**September 1912**

Robert, Cora, Mary, Edith and Sybil had been gone only five days, but their absence was felt keenly by the inhabitants of Crawley House. Neither Isobel, nor Matthew could have guessed how accustomed they had become to seeing their cousins on a regular basis. Tom, gifted with a measure of self-awareness, knew that he would miss seeing Sybil, even in just a week's time, but just how acutely he did surprised him.

Whenever he thought of her, he would picture her hidden away in some corner of her family's London house eagerly turning the pages of the novel he'd given her, and the image would bring a smile to his face. He supposed there were any number of other things she could be doing, but in truth, his assumption was not far off the mark. If he allowed the thought of her to linger for more than a moment, he would go back in his mind to the night of her birthday. The way she so sweetly and innocently asked that he treat her like a real person and an equal, not the voiceless adornment that the likes of Larry Grey no doubt would have her believe was all she was—it completely disarmed and endeared him. She hadn't had to ask, of course. Who in the world could meet Sybil and not want to _know _her? In Tom's mind, to be captivated by her looks but not be interested in what lay beneath was wasted effort. Beautiful as she was, her brains and moxie made her all the more alluring, and damned if he was going to be the one who would put her on a pedestal to wilt for lack of true life experience.

Sybil's request in some ways felt like a kind of admission as to the treatment she expected from the men she'd known up to this point in her life and the ones who would begin circling her as her debut neared. Perhaps that was why Tom answered her with his own admission. She had asked him to see the whole of her, so how could he not reveal the same of himself? Whatever doubts Isobel and his own mother had put in his mind regarding letting the Robert Crawleys know his background, telling her had been easy. What she'd said next, he supposed, was the reason he was so anxious to see her again. Because if they had something beyond friendship to look forward to in the future, he wanted them to start forging the path toward whatever that future was as soon as possible, regardless of how long it would take to get there.

Tom hadn't told Isobel, Matthew or Claire that Sybil now knew his background, and he wondered whether telling them mattered any more than telling the rest of the Crawleys that he was a servant's son mattered. He was proud of who his parents were, but he also wanted to be his own man, one not tied down by old prejudices, and the more the issue of who knew and who didn't hung out there, the more he felt confined by it—and not in a way he liked.

So when he, Matthew and Isobel had sat down for breakfast on the Saturday morning after Robert and his family headed to London, Tom posed the question.

"Do you suppose I should have said something about myself to the family last week?"

"Said what?" Isobel asked as she buttered her toast.

"About the fact that my mam is the housekeeper here. When we were discussing the housemaid who wants to leave them. That might have been a good time to say something, don't you think?"

Matthew and Isobel looked at each other with surprise.

"I'd assumed you'd chosen not to say anything at all," Matthew said.

"I hadn't really chosen one way or the other," Tom said. "I knew I didn't want to lie, but now that we've gotten to know them and like them, I feel like the sin of omission is just as bad."

Isobel sighed. "Well, you know where I stand on this. It's not their business, and they've been so welcoming to you, why bother bringing it all up now?"

"Because I want to be honest about who I am."

"And who says you haven't been?" Isobel asked. "They haven't asked, which means on some level they don't care. Oh, I suppose Violet might, seeing how old fashioned she is, but honestly, Tom, don't trouble yourself with it. They obviously aren't."

"You don't owe them anything," Matthew said. "If they do ask, you can answer honestly, and if they wonder why you didn't say before say it's because you didn't think it mattered, because it doesn't. And if it does to them, then they'll just have to get over it. You're our family—that's never going to change, regardless of what Cousin Robert and his say."

Tom smiled, humbled by Matthew's unbridled support.

"What brought this on, anyway?" Isobel asked.

Tom looked back and forth between the two and figured there was no point in hiding it. "I've told Lady Sybil."

Isobel almost dropped her fork. "What?! Why?"

"She asked me if I ever wanted the chance to see my mother again, and it seemed wrong not to tell her." It wasn't exactly a lie.

"Do you think she'll mention it to the rest of her family?" Matthew asked.

"No," Tom answered. "She said she wouldn't and I believe her."

Isobel smiled. "Such a sweet girl. To think of her helping a young maid to become a secretary only to be chastised by her parents."

Matthew laughed. "They're hiring four new housemaids, a new footman, a new scullery maid and hall boys for the move back to the big house. With the search for a new estate agent as fruitless as it's been for me, I can't help but empathize with the desire not to have to fill yet another vacant position."

"They'll have six housemaids and two footmen?" Tom asked, incredulous. "Just how big is this place?"

"It could house a small country," Isobel said. "Rather excessive, I know, but the architecture is quite beautiful. It really is a marvel to behold."

"Why don't you come with me today?" Matthew asked Tom. "I've been meeting the candidates for the agent position there to make use of the map of the estate stored in the library. It's about time you had a look at it."

"Oh, why not?" Tom said with a shrug of his shoulders. "If I stick around, mam is just going to find something for me to fix."

"Has she shown you her new lamp?" Isobel asked with a smile.

"Yes! She's finally decided to join the twentieth century!" Tom exclaimed with a laugh.

"Not everyone took to electricity right away," Matthew said.

"Cora said Violet was a hold out as well," Isobel said. "Do you wonder if they have anything else in common?"

"Mam and Cousin Violet?" Tom thought for a minute. Then, with a cheeky smile, he said, "They both wish I'd hold my tongue more often."

Matthew and Isobel laughed. Tom heard a snicker behind him, and he turned to see Moseley standing in his usual place holding back a smile.

"Something to add on the matter, Moseley."

"Not at all, sir."

"Well, we should get going," Matthew said, standing. "Mother, what is your day like?"

"I'll be going to the hospital. Violet is determined to keep modernity out of there too, so I must stand as it's only defender."

After the two young men said their goodbyes to Isobel and after Tom went to the kitchen to say a quick goodbye to his mother, Tom and Matthew stood outside waiting for Pratt to come pick them up.

"Isn't the big house close enough to walk?" Tom asked.

"Yes, but I need to go visit one of the farms first before the interviews—you don't mind do you?"

Tom shook his head.

A few minutes later, Pratt pulled up to the house. Matthew opened the door, leaving it open for Tom to follow, but Tom had other ideas.

"Pratt, would you like the day off?"

The confused chauffer looked to Matthew. "Sir?"

"Tom, what are you up to?"

"If I drive us, Mr. Pratt here can take the afternoon. Would you deny a working man a day's rest?"

Matthew rolled his eyes then sighed. "Pratt, would you like a ride back to the house?"

"Uh, I suppose."

A grinning Tom rubbed his hands together and walked around the motor to the driver's seat, as Pratt slid over. Tom put his hands on the wheel, then turned to the chauffer. "Has anyone ever driven _you _anywhere?"

Pratt smiled. "Can't say as they have."

**XXX**

"So why did you tell Sybil, _really_?"

Tom's head whipped over to look at Matthew. "What?"

"Keep your eyes on the road!"

Tom rolled his eyes. "We're not going to crash, for God's sake. This isn't the first time I've done this."

Matthew smiled. "So answer my question."

"I told you. She asked me if I wanted the chance to see my mother again. I said, 'I see her everyday,' and went on to explain why."

"What was the context?" Matthew asked with a smirk.

"What do you want me to say?"

"I'd like for you to admit that you like her, for starters."

Tom laughed. "I do like her."

"So what happened to the guy who wasn't going to fall in love with an earl's daughter."

"Who said anything about love?"

"Your face."

"I am not that transparent, neither am I in love with Sybil Crawley."

"No, you're certainly not transparent, but this is me you're talking to, and I happen to know you better than anyone. You're in _something_with her."

Tom thought for a moment "I'm . . ."

"What?"

"Intrigued."

"Intrigued? So, it's worse than I thought," Matthew said with a laugh.

"What!? I like her. We're friends. Is that wrong?"

Matthew smiled. "No." He looked at Tom out of the corner of his eye. "Is she why you think you need to tell them about where you come from?"

Tom sighed, but didn't say anything, so Matthew spoke again.

"You're wrong to assume out of hand that they wouldn't allow you to court her properly if they knew."

"Am I?"

"Cousin Robert likes you very much, Tom, so does Cousin Cora. Much more than they like me, I'm not embarrassed to admit."

"Don't be ridiculous."

"It's true. All our lives, when we're around other people you defer to me, play second fiddle, in deference to my father and the fact that I'm his natural son. I don't think you realize you're doing it, but you are, which is absurd since most of the time the chap everyone finds most interesting is you."

Tom rolled his eyes.

"Look, I don't think you have to say anything, but I also don't think you'd have as much to fear as you think you do if you did tell them."

"What about you?"

"What about me?"

"You have an heir to produce, don't you?"

"Oh, look! We're here!" Matthew said over enthusiastically, which made Tom laugh.

Tom pulled over next to a barn where two men, one who looked to be in his fifties and one much younger stood waiting.

"Hello, Mr. Mason," Matthew said.

The older man came over to shake Matthew's hand. "Mr. Crawley, good to see you again. This is my son, William."

When all introductions were done. The foursome began their walk around the Mason's farm as Matthew discussed his plans for the estate and modernizing production.

"As you can see, we've done a bit of modernizing ourselves," William said pointing to some of their equipment.

"It's to your credit," Matthew said. "Too many fields lay fallow because the yield is so low the work is not worth it for some of the older tenants."

"Well, I've had the benefit of having William home with me the last year. We've done much better than in years past."

"Where were you before?" Tom asked William.

"I was a footman at the big house for several years before the move forced them to let me go."

"Do you want the position again?" Matthew asked. "Because I know the family is in need of one, now that they'll be back at Downton Abbey."

William and his father looked at one another and smiled, before Mr. Mason answered for his son. "We're negotiating that right now. William would like to stay and work the farm, but it's my wife's preference that he work in service."

"Well, let us know. If you want the post again, I'll speak with Carson and it shall be yours."

"Thank you, sir," William said.

"So what of the changes for the tenants?" Asked Mr. Mason.

"I'm sure you've heard of some resistance among some of the tenants, but it's really quite simple," Matthew began. "We want the estate to be self-sustaining. The upkeep of the house and grounds are too much of a drain for anyone to hope to maintain them without some influx of revenues."

"What does that mean for the tenants?" William asked.

Matthew continued, "We need all the lands to be in production, and we need at least some of the output to be sold in trade with the proceeds going back into the estate. We're asking the tenants who do not wish to work the land to take some compensation and turn the farms back over to us. We are rebuilding the cottages in the village, and once they are ready, those tenants will be able to take their retirements there. The tenants who wish to work with us will have their agreements honored. What we would be asking is your help in working the fallow fields. You could keep the yields from your own lands and for your additional work on what would become the estate's farms, you would receive a small payment or an equal reduction in rent—"

"Or . . ." Tom cut in.

Matthew smiled. "Or we could deposit the payment in a savings account with which you could eventually purchase your plot."

Mr. Mason's face went white. "You mean . . . own this land _myself_."

Tom and Matthew both smiled and nodded, and Tom filled in the details.

"Based on what we've calculated, once full production has begun and the initial investment of equipment and labor has been paid off, production from only about a third of the land currently held by the Grantham estate will be needed to keep it running self-sufficiently. We could simply sell the rest off, but it's in our interest that it remain farmland, so we'll keep it in tenancy or reserve sale to those who are already here."

"I can't quite believe it—it sounds a bit too good to be true," said a still bewildered Mr. Mason.

Tom laughed. "I believe that's our main problem in convincing some of the other tenants."

"Landlords have a long, colorful history of misconduct," Matthew said. "Those were men of the upper classes, who believed themselves entitled to what they were taking from you. We were raised by a doctor who taught us to understand the value of work. We know how much you've put in here, and we want to honor that."

"And Lord Grantham has agreed to all this?" Mr. Mason asked.

Tom nodded. "It wasn't easy to convince him, but he's lived the consequences of sticking to the old ways. This way Downton Abbey is protected, which is his greatest wish, and the tenants are given a choice as to their fate, not left with nothing, which is what would have happened if the whole estate had been sold after the move. This is a good idea, but it's new, which is why it's scary."

"I could help," William said, excitedly. Turning to his father, he said, "Surely, the goal of owning the farm ourselves will convince mother I should stay here with you and not go back to service. And I could talk to the other tenants to get them to sign on. I could help with the transition once things get going."

"He could," Mr. Mason said to Tom and Matthew. "He knows the new equipment, having worked it with me this past year, and he knows the other tenants well—he grew up on this land, as I did."

Tom and Matthew looked at one another, then back to the Masons. "Any help you could give us would be most welcome," Matthew said.

Hands shook and agreements eagerly made, Tom and Matthew were on their way a quarter of an hour later.

"How old do you suppose William is?" Matthew asked as they made their way back to Downton Abbey.

Tom shrugged. "Twenty, twenty-one, perhaps. Why?"

"He'd make a great agent if he had a bit more experience."

Tom stopped the car. "What experience does he need, exactly?"

Matthew thought for a minute. "He knows the land."

"He knows the tenants," Tom added.

"He'd not be tied to the old ideas."

"Anything he doesn't know of management or accounting, we could teach him."

Matthew rubbed his forehead, then looked at Tom. "Are we mad?"

Tom laughed. "Yes, we are." Then, he turned the car around to drive back to Mason farm so they could offer William the job.

**XXX**

The following Monday, the day that the family was to return to Downton, Matthew and Tom traveled to Ripon to work together for the first time. Once they had arrived, Matthew followed one of the stewards into the office of the partners, who were there to welcome him on his first day, while Tom proceeded to his office.

After hanging his hat and suit jacket, Tom sat down at his desk to find a small envelope addressed to him. He turned it over, but there was no return address. The handwriting was unknown to him. He walked to the room where the secretaries sat to ask as to its provenance.

"It came in this morning's post, Mr. Branson," one of them said without looking up from her typewriter.

Tom walked back to his office, looking at the envelope and running his thumb over the handwriting. He had a guess, but it couldn't be.

_Could it?_

He closed the door to his office and sat down. He stared at the envelope for several minutes before finally opening it. He grinned upon seeing her name at the bottom of it. He'd been right.

_Mr. Branson,_

_Sitting here thinking about the haunting novel you gave me to read, it occurred to me that you've sent me two notes now, and I have not had the decency to send you a response in kind. I hope you do not think me impertinent for sending it to your office and without a return address, but I didn't want you to be the subject of gossip at your place of work or the subject of teasing at Crawley House._

_Having made up my mind to send it, I couldn't be sure whether this letter would reach you before our return to Downton, but I simply couldn't wait to discuss Frankenstein. Macabre, indeed! I've never read anything like it, and I mean that in the best way possible. You mentioned that the author was the daughter of Mary Wollstonecraft. I do love my mama dearly, but I must admit I've thought this week how thrilling it would have been to be raised by a woman of such ideas. The work in this novel, from a woman's hand, is an obvious testament as to what we can be capable of when our minds and imaginations are given license to run free, rather than stifled by the silly constraints of propriety._

_As to the book itself, what a marvelously dark exploration of the human mind and what can happen when we succumb to our basest instincts. For surely base is the only word for Dr. Frankenstein's choice to use his intelligence for such a dark purpose, isn't it? Perhaps I am being unfairly judgmental. The creature, after all, was made evil by the treatment it was subject to at the hands of other humans who might have given their compassion. It's all too interesting! I am eager for your next recommendation. I am also bringing back a few books from my Aunt Rosamund's collection. Her late husband, dear Uncle Marmaduke, was himself an avid reader and a lover of mysteries. I hope you have not read the work of Arthur Conan Doyle. His Sherlock Holmes stories are quite thrilling, and I'd love nothing more than to introduce you to something that you might consider half as exciting as what you have given me._

_Alas, the dressing gong has just sounded. So I must be off. Thank you, again. I look forward to more chats with you, although there are no places at Downton quite like the alcove to hide away in. Perhaps I shall build one myself someday._

_Your friend, Sybil Crawley_

Tom might have kept reading the letter over and over late into the morning had not one of the stewards knocked on his door about ten minutes after he first opened it.

"Sir, a Stewart Pratt here to see you. Lord Grantham's chauffer, he said."

"Yes, send him in."

Tom stood as Pratt stepped in, hat in hand. "Hello, Pratt. What brings you by?"

"Well, sir, I hate to inconvenience you at your place of work, but, the family returns today and both motors are needed to fetch them at the train station. Mr. Taylor, who works for her ladyship, the Dowager Countess, had agreed last week to come along with me, but it seems he's out of sorts this morning. Knowing now that you can drive, and having no other option, I was wondering if you'd help."

Tom smiled. "I'd be happy to. What time do they arrive?"

"On the 3:45 train, sir."

"All right, I'll be by the house to meet you at the appropriate time."

"Much obliged, sir."

Tom smiled as Pratt stepped out of the room. He folded up the letter and put it in his waistcoat pocket, holding his hand against it for a long moment before getting back to work.

**XXX**

That afternoon, the family was delighted to see Tom at the train station to pick them up. After Pratt explained the situation and Tom helped him mount their luggage on the two automobiles, they set off. Pratt drove Robert and Cora, while Tom drove the girls, with Mary and Edith siting in the very back and Sybil facing them in the seat directly behind the driver. She'd taken care to sit on the opposite side of the driver's seat so she could see Tom if she turned her head only slightly to her left.

He'd been silent most of the way as the sisters chatted idly about the train ride, but Sybil so wanted to hear his voice that about three-quarters of the way through the journey, she finally turned to him and spoke.

"I didn't know you could drive. You really are a jack of all trades."

Tom took a peak at her and smiled.

"How did you learn?" Edith asked, leaning forward a bit.

"A mechanic in Manchester taught me. I gave him some legal help, and he wasn't able to pay the full fee, so I asked if he'd teach me about cars instead."

"That was neighborly of you," Sybil said.

"I'd like to buy my own eventually, so it seemed a practical deal to make."

"Well, if you do, don't make it one of these," Mary said. "They're frightfully uncomfortable. I much prefer whatever it is Aunt Rosamund keeps in London."

"I don't suppose you remember the make?" Tom asked her.

"Why in the world would I bother myself with that knowledge," Mary answered, her tone making Sybil and Edith laugh.

"I'd like to drive someday," Edith said.

Mary turned to her with a look as if she'd grown a second head. "Whatever for?"

"Why not? Gentlemen like driving, why shouldn't women."

Mary rolled her eyes.

"I'd settle for learning how to ride a bicycle," Sybil said. "Oh look, there it is!"

Sybil turned and got to her knees to see the old house as it appeared in the distance and rose to its full majesty as they approached. None of the sisters had seen it since the day they'd left. Edith felt a squeeze on her hand, and turned to see a teary-eyed Mary holding it tightly. Sybil sat back down and seeing this rare display of emotional solidarity between her sisters, leaned toward them to cover their joined hands with hers. They remained that way until Tom brought the car to a stop at the front door.

Tom hopped out of the car and went around the side to help the girls out. Edith stepped out first, then Mary, who stopped in front of Tom and said, "I know we owe this to you and Matthew, so thank you. It means so much to be here again."

Tom smiled at Mary. Then he turned to Sybil who followed Mary out of the car. She took the hand he held out for her.

"Welcome home," he said quietly.

Sybil looked into the depths of his blue eyes, then, still holding his hand, turned to look at the house that until this moment had never felt like home before.

"Thank you for the letter," he added.

"Thank _you_," she said, turning back to him with a smile and squeezing his hand before letting go.

"For what, exactly?"

"'Everything. This."

"This is just the beginning."

Sybil smiled. "I know. That's the best part."


	15. Chapter 15

_More series one, episode three action. Every scene in this chapter is repurposed from one on the show, which is why it took almost no time to write. _

_Quick note about my approach to writing Mathew in this and upcoming chapters: On the show, he goes from being annoyed by Mary's condescension in episode two (Perseus and sea monster conversation) to seemingly interested in her and jealous of the attention she gives Pamuk in episode three, a switch that seems prompted by nothing other than maybe his realization that Edith liked him, which, if that's what it is, it really doesn't make any sense. My conclusion was that we are supposed to think at that point that Matthew is not experienced with women and doesn't know what he's doing. The Matthew in this story was engaged once and lost his fiancée to illness, which means that he has something in common with Mary (who lost her fiancé, Patrick) and has dealt with love and loss in a way that made him smarter and a bit more cynical about women and flirting. He also has Tom to confide in, and there will be LOTS of conversations between them about the Crawley sisters. _

_Also, regarding how Sybil addresses Tom as "Mr. Branson" in the letter: In case you didn't notice, at dinner on the night after her birthday, Sybil says, "I agree with Tom . . ." because once Violet and Cora both start addressing him as a family member, the girls follow suit. But for the letter, Sybil would have thought that being formal would be appropriate lest someone other than Tom see it and think it's a "love" letter. Sybil, at this point, is very protective of their blossoming friendship and doesn't want meddling/teasing at the hands of the people that they know to make things awkward between them._

_Lastly, a correction: I made a mistake in chapter 13 when Mary says Napier will be coming "next month." On the show she says "next week," because that whole episode takes place in November of 1912, but I moved up that scene with her and Cora to fit my story. In that chapter, when Mary and Cora talk about Napier's visit, it's still late August, so I've gone back and changed her line to say "in November" instead. _

_Sorry for the long note :) Here it is . . . _

* * *

**November 1912**

Sybil's morning routine had been the same for the last month.

She'd come down to breakfast early, wait until her father was finished with the newspapers, take them to the library and spend the morning scouring them for job notices for secretaries. Taking care to focus on entry-level and eliminate the ones that sought proof of extensive secretarial experience, Sybil realized that opportunities for Gwen were few and far between. But this morning, finally, she hit on something. Sybil knew it would be wrong to interrupt her friend while she was working, especially now that they were back at Downton, where there was more to do. But by midday, she couldn't hold it in any longer.

After luncheon had been cleared, she went up to her room to fetch the paper where she'd left it on her desk and then back down to the servants hall to find Gwen. The staff had just finished eating and had started to disperse and return to their duties when Sybil came down. Seeing her at the foot of the stairs, Gwen quickly pulled her aside.

"Milady, what are you doing here—you could have rung!"

"Someone else might have come up, and this is important!"

Gwen smiled. "Well, then?"

"I saw this," Sybil said holding up the newspaper.

Gwen took it and looked at the notice Sybil had circled.

"It's for a secretary at a new firm in Thirsk. See?"

"But . . ."

"No buts! You've long been finished with the course. Now it's time you find a job. I know how little time you have with all your work, so I've taken the liberty of looking for you. This is perfect!"

"I don't know, milady."

"Don't lose heart now! Write to them today and name me as your reference. I can give it without ever specifying precisely what your work here has been."

Gwen took a deep breath, and Sybil smiled, not wanting to push her further.

"Will you check with Anna about coming up tonight before diner, so we can talk more?"

Gwen smiled and nodded.

Sybil went back upstairs, intending to head to the library, when she ran into Edith, who had her hat and coat on.

"Where are you going?"

"Out."

"To do what?" Sybil asked, curious as to the determined look on Edith's face.

"Find a life."

**XXX**

For Edith, Downton Place had felt like a trap. Literally and figuratively. It had been hard enough to grow up along side Mary's sense of entitlement and self-importance when everything was fine. To have to live with her after so much of what Mary believed solely hers was lost was a special kind of torture. Edith understood that as the eldest Mary felt ownership over Downton Abbey, but to Edith, Mary behaved as if nobody felt its loss as acutely as she did, as if the great tragedy of their father's failure had happened only to Mary and to no one else. It was a stifling way to live.

And there was the fact that the nearest village was an hour's walk away. Not one for riding like her sisters, all Edith could do to get away was walk in circles around the house. Like a prize pig sent out to wander the pasture aimlessly.

Making the short walk to Downton village, Edith laughed at herself and tried to shoo away her self-pity. It was such a relief to be back home, where it was easy to lose oneself in the endless maze of hallways and where a distraction in the village was only twenty minutes away—a quarter of an hour if one walked with purpose. And on this afternoon Edith had one.

Months had passed since she'd admitted to her sisters her interest in Matthew, and it had taken as much time to decide exactly how to act on that interest. She had not been taken by Matthew upon first meeting him, nor in the first weeks of their acquaintance. It was to be expected. Having been in love with someone whom she'd known all her life distorted Edith's view of how it was supposed to feel at the start with someone who was more or less a stranger. If she was honest with herself she could admit that her curiosity about him stemmed from how aloof he was with Mary. Mary, of course, would say that if she and Matthew weren't close it was because _she _had made it so, but Edith could see that Matthew wasn't interested. Not in Mary, not in any of them.

Mary's declaration on the day they'd met him that he'd be choosing a bride from among the sisters had turned out to be quite wrong, in fact. It was possible that he was still mourning the fiancée who had left him the money that ultimately had allowed for their return to Downton. It was possible he was simply a bit shy. Tom seemed the more self-assured of the two and had endeared himself to her parents and grandmother quite easily, which was amusing to Edith given his opinions and his penchant for voicing them at every turn. But it was also possible that Matthew was simply biding his time—not asserting himself too much to give the family time to get used to him as the heir. Tom liked pushing people's buttons, but then he had nothing to lose. Matthew had everything, including Edith's attention.

She didn't know whether she could love Matthew. She didn't know whether she wanted to. But as she'd intimated to Sybil on her way out, she needed a life outside of the walls of Downton. Matthew was as good a path toward that goal as any.

Edith was so lost in her thoughts as she walked toward Crawley House that she didn't hear Matthew calling out to her or the ringing of his bicycle bell until he was upon her.

"Oh," she said, a bit alarmed. She hadn't quite worked out yet what she was going to say and seeing him discombobulated her a bit.

Matthew tipped his hat to her and stepped off his bicycle. "Hello," he said with a smile. "I'd offer you a lift if I could."

"It was you I was coming to see," Edith replied, trying to calm her nerves.

"Oh, then your timing is matchless. I just got off the train."

"From your office? How are you liking the work?"

"Very well. It's been nice to get back to it after focusing solely on getting the farms up and running again the first month I was here."

"I can't say I know much about the running of the estate or the changes you've made. All we get from Papa about the matter has to do with his continued concern regarding a former footman serving as agent."

"I'm happy to report William Mason has stepped up to the rigors of the position most admirably and is doing an excellent job. You're welcome to pass that along to Cousin Robert."

Edith smiled, then looked around. "Shouldn't Tom be with you? Don't you work together?"

"We do. He stayed behind to get a few things finished."

Edith swallowed. _No more stalling. _

"Well, the reason I was coming by was . . . the other day at dinner, Cousin Isobel was saying you wanted to see some of the local churches."

"She's right, I do. I want to know more about the county generally if I'm to spend the rest of my days here."

"Well, I thought I might . . . show you a few of the nearer ones. We could take a picnic and make an outing of it."

"That's very kind."

"Nonsense. I'll enjoy it. It's too long since I played the tourist."

"It would have to be a Saturday. Churches work on Sunday and I work all the week days."

"Then Saturday it is. I'll get Lynch to sort out the governess cart, and I'll pick you up at about eleven."

The words were barely out when Edith started walking away, not wanting to linger or seem too desperate. She held her breath until she'd rounded the nearest corner.

If she'd turned around as she was leaving, she would have seen Matthew blinking several times in bewilderment, then smiling as he realized what had just happened.

**XXX**

"Which churches will you show him?"

Edith considered her answer before replying to Anna's question. They were in Mary's room later that day. Anna was tying Mary into her corset while Edith, already dressed for dinner, watched from Mary's bed.

"I can't decide," Edith said finally. "Kirby, possibly, or perhaps Easingwold."

"You don't think you're being a bit obvious?" Mary asked archly.

"Coming from you, that's rich," was Edith's response.

Before Mary could offer her own retort, Cora came in holding a letter.

"There was a letter from Mr. Napier in the evening post," she said, looking brightly at Mary.

"Did he accept the invitation?" Mary asked.

"Not yet."

"Perhaps he thought it was too obvious," Edith said, feeling as if she'd won this round.

"Obvious? What are you talking about?" Cora asked looking back and forth between her daughters.

"Edith has devised a scheme to trap Matthew by taking him to visit churches in the area."

"It's a perfectly fine idea!" Edith protested. "He expressed an interest. Why should he see anything in it except my being helpful?"

"Oh . . . Matthew, is it?" Cora said with a sigh. She thought for a minute, tapping the letter against her hand. "You know my dear, perhaps Mary is right."

"What?!" Edith exclaimed as Mary smiled, lifting her nose in the air. "Why would you say so?"

"You have to remember that he's been engaged before. I know he's only been here a few months, but if marrying were on his mind, he'd have made as much clear by now. Perhaps a more subtle approach is best for him."

"Well, the invitation has been made and accepted. I'll look a fool if I take it back now."

"How would that be different from every other day?" Mary said.

Cora gave her eldest daughter a stern look. "Oh, Mary!"

"I'm going," Edith insisted. "I don't care what either of you say."

Just after she'd spoken, Sybil walked in, having gotten dressed in her own room with Gwen's help—after a long talk about Gwen's inquiry letter regarding the secretarial post in Thirsk.

Mary, now being buttoned into her dress, looked over to her and smiled.

Cora narrowed her eyes at her youngest, then turned to Edith. "You shall take Sybil with you."

"No!"

"Take me where?" Sybil asked, sitting on the chair next to the window.

"To visit local churches with Mr. Matthew on Saturday," Anna answered, holding back a snicker at the back and forth she was witnessing.

"Must I?" Sybil asked, turning to her mother. "I find those places rather dull, myself. Having to go once a week is more than enough."

Cora rolled her eyes. "Oh, don't be silly. You'll go and enjoy yourself."

"But won't Sybil's presence make things worse?" Mary asked her mother.

"How so?" Cora asked.

"It'll be obvious she's there as a chaperone if Edith made the invitation on her own."

Cora sighed. "You're absolutely right. Edith, write to Matthew and invite him to bring Tom along. That way it's just a group outing, nothing anyone should be intimidated by." Turning to Sybil, she added, "It'll be your job to keep Tom entertained. Find a way to pull yourselves away now and again to give Matthew and Edith some time alone."

Sybil could barely contain her laughter at what she'd just walked into. "Um . . . all right."

"And just how are we supposed to get around?" Edith asked, now thoroughly miffed that her perfectly planned outing had been taken over. "We can't all fit in the governess cart."

"Tom can drive," Sybil put in. "We could take the motor."

"There you have it," Cora said, her tone suggesting that part of the conversation was over.

Edith stood to leave. "Fine. I'm going down before you decide to plan out any more of my life."

Cora smiled after she'd gone, looking between Sybil and Mary. "It'll be better this way. I just don't want Matthew to feel pressured by us."

"Was there anything else in Mr. Napier's letter?" Mary asked.

"Oh, yes!" Cora said, looking back to the paper in her hands. "Apparently he's bringing a friend with him, an attaché at the Turkish embassy—a Mr. . . . Kemal Pamuk. He's a son of one of the sultan's ministers and he's here for the Albanian talks."

"What's that?" Mary asked.

"To create an independent Albania," Sybil answered. "Don't you read the papers?"

"I'm too busy living a life," Mary replied. "Since when do you?"

"I like to keep myself informed," Sybil said.

"Since Turkey's signature is vital," Cora went on, "Mr. Napier's been given the job of keeping him happy until the conference begins, and he's eager to try an English hunt." Cora stopped for a moment, her expression brightening with an idea. "I shall invite this Mr. Pamuk to stay here as well. Who knows? A little hospitality in an English house may make all the difference to the outcome. And Mary, you will ride out with him."

Mary rolled her eyes, "Oh, Mama, must I? My boots are at the menders and I haven't ridden for weeks."

Choosing to ignore Mary's pleas, Cora turned to the young maid. "Anna, please see that Lady Mary is fully equipped to go hunting."

"Yes, your ladyship," she answered dutifully, giving Mary an apologetic look once Cora had left the room.

Sybil stood and walked over to the vanity as Mary put the last of her jewely on and Anna picked up Mary's day clothes to take to the laundry.

"It will give you more time to spend with Mr. Napier, won't it?" Sybil asked.

"I suppose. Just as I suppose I'll eventually be excited that he's visiting at all."

"Don't you like him?"

"I do. At least, I want to."

"Well, that's something," Sybil said, encouragingly.

"And something is better than nothing," Mary said, as stood and turned toward Sybil to head down to dinner.

Sybil smiled. "One look at you, and Mr. Napier will feel quite swept of his feet."

"You're very sweet," Mary said, "but you're forgetting that the one who needs to be swept of their feet is me. No word yet on whether Evelyn Napier is much good at that."

Sybil tucked her arm into Mary's and the two went for the stairs. "If he were an actual sweeper, though, we'd know he'd not stand much of a chance with you."

"Quite right."

**XXX**

**Two days later**

"Tom," Matthew called to his friend, whose nose was deep in a book, from across the parlor at Crawley House.

He received no answer.

"Tom."

Nothing.

"TOM!"

Finally, Tom's head jerked up with a start. "What?!"

Matthew laughed. "So it's another Sherlock Holmes book, then?"

"Sorry," he said with a bit of a bashful smile. "It's quite gripping. I've never before read a mystery novel in which I couldn't figure out who's done what."

"What's this one called?"

"The Hound of the Baskervilles."

"Is it from Downton's library?"

"No, they're all from Lady Rosamund's late husband's collection. Sybil brought them from London."

"She did, did she? Just for you?" Matthew asked with a smirk.

Tom rolled his eyes. "Did you have a question or where you interrupting just to bother me?"

Matthew laughed. "I was going to ask Moseley to bring in tea. Would you like some?"

"Sure."

Matthew stood to call for their butler, when his mother stepped in.

"I've had a note from Cousin Cora. She asks if we can dine on Saturday. There are two young men staying for a hunt, so the numbers will be even for once."

"What men?" Matthew asked.

"A Turkish diplomat called something I can't read," Isobel said, "And quote, 'Lord Branksome's charming son.' " She snickered. "He's to be flung at Mary, presumably."

"When it comes to Cousin Mary," Matthew said. "She is quite capable of doing her own flinging, I assure you."

"So is Cousin Edith," Tom said with a grin, not looking up from his book.

Matthew gave Tom a stern look. "Hush up, you."

"What's he talking about?" Isobel asked.

Matthew sighed. "The outing Edith has planned for us on Saturday."

"To the churches?" Isobel asked. "You mean you're both going?"

"Yes, we _are_," Matthew said, pointedly looking at Tom. "Edith wrote yesterday to invite Tom to go along."

"What does a Catholic want to do with visiting Anglican churches!?" Tom exclaimed.

"You're not getting out of it," Mathew said. "Besides, I've told you Cousin Sybil is coming."

"I've half a mind to believe she's a reluctant participant as well," Tom said.

"Well, bully for you, then, you're a perfectly matched pair, but you'll not leave me to go alone."

"Oh, stop fretting, both of you. I'm sure you'll have a lovely time," Isobel said. "It's good for those girls to get out of that big house once in a while. You should be patient with Edith, Matthew. Think of all the pressure on her to be married well—on all three, really—as the only tangible goal their parents have set for them in life. I must say, I sometimes feel very lucky to have only sons. Now, shall we have some tea?"

"Yes!" both young men said emphatically.

Isobel smiled and stepped out to find Moseley. She was back a few minutes later, and sat down on the sofa in the middle of the room. Tom stood from the chair he'd been sitting in and joined her on the sofa.

"Aunt Isobel, do you ever imagine what it would be like to have girls?" he asked.

"There are moments I wish I'd been blessed by a daughter. And then I remember that I'll have two of them sooner or later."

Tom laughed. "When we marry, you mean?"

Isobel nodded, smiling.

"Well, plan on later rather than sooner for me," Matthew said. "_Much_ later."

* * *

_Next chapter, the hunt and the double date ;)_


	16. Chapter 16

_Thank you, dear readers, for reading, reviewing, following, favoriting, etc. _

_This chapter and the next are companion pieces that cover the events of the Saturday and Sunday that Pamuk and Napier are visiting. This chapter is the hunt and the "double date" to the churches, and next chapter will be dinner, drawing room chatter, and the now infamous overnight escapades of Pamuk._

_Fair warning: I believe Pamuk and Mary's encounter on the show was tantamount to rape, and I believe the scene was written so that a modern audience would see it that way while understanding that Mary herself would not. Mary considers herself complicit in the act because of the sexual politics of her time, but even today, there is still a tragic "blame the victim" culture when it comes to sexual assault that plays a role in convincing women they do it to themselves. This is a very difficult and sensitive subject, but I think it's important to explain my perspective in writing that part of the story. The bottom line is, I see Pamuk as a predator and that's how I've written him. The storyline plays out very differently here but in a way that I hope is satisfying and that remains true to the characters involved._

_But don't worry, there is plenty of fluff to balance out the darkness. ;)_

_Hope you enjoy!_

* * *

**Sunday, 1 a.m.**

He could admit it was a pleasing view, the way the footman's jacket hugged his back tightly and tapered down over his hips in a perfectly tailored fit.

The hips were slim, almost like a woman's.

He knew men of that persuasion, and he'd wondered, after the warning he'd given the footman this afternoon, if it mightn't all be easier if he were too. But their beauty was like an inoculation against it. And she was too beautiful. _They _were too beautiful. He'd laughed at the phrase "English Rose" before this day, but no more. And now, they would be his. There would be resistance, of course. There was always resistance. But he could always talk them into it—well, _almost _always. It really didn't matter. If they weren't willing tonight, who would be there to stop him?

When the footman stopped in front of her door, he walked around him and asked, "And Lady Mary?"

The footman pointed to a door down the hall, then turned and left.

He looked around. The hallway was deserted. He smiled to himself, then opened the door and walked in.

**XXX**

**Saturday, 10 a.m., fifteen hours earlier**

Sybil stepped out of the house and was immediately surrounded by dogs.

"Apologies, milady," Lynch called out from his mount. "They're a wild bunch this morning."

Sybil laughed as she stepped around them. "They'll enjoy the hunt, then."

"Indeed," the groom said with a smile. "I've noticed you haven't come 'round to the stables since we've been back."

Sybil looked up to the sky. It was a crisp, overcast day, perfect for a ride. She looked back to Lynch and said, "No, we'll have to remedy that soon."

She had come out to admire the horses, having seen the hunting party gathering from her bedroom window upstairs. Aside from Mary, Sybil didn't know any of the participants, so she simply smiled as they tipped their hats to her while she wandered about the group, occasionally stopping to admire a particularly fine looking animal.

Sybil noticed Mary at the edge of the driveway looking very smart, as always, in her riding clothes. Mary was looking down at their mother who, no doubt, was giving her eldest last minute instructions as to the gentleman who had been invited on her behalf. Sybil laughed to herself and thought about how many years she might have before she became the target of her mother's constant tutorials in the ways of attracting men. Cora meant well and saw getting her daughters settled as her primary responsibility, but Sybil, as she was wont to do, wondered whether leaving well enough alone was not a better approach to helping her and her sisters achieve happiness and security.

Mary had protested when Cora had pushed her to join the hunt, but sitting on her horse now, she felt good. Riding made Mary feel powerful. She could not always control the turns of her life, but for a few hours, she could control the hulking beast beneath her and could allow herself to believe that if she chose, she could ride out into the great unknown and make her own destiny. The emotion was a fleeting one, but Mary held on to it, however naïve she knew it was to do so.

Watching her mother walk back toward the front of the house, Mary caught Sybil's eye and waved. Mary would have enjoyed riding out with Sybil today, but she knew her sister preferred solitary rides to hunting. And she also knew Sybil would have her hands full trying to wrangle Matthew, Tom and Edith. Mary sighed, thinking theirs might be the more fun outing of the day and wondering, very briefly, whether she might not have preferred to join them.

Mary knew Edith considered herself in constant competition with Mary, and Mary acknowledged that she played a rather large part in the dreadful state of affairs between them, but things were different with Matthew. Whereas Patrick had been deeply interested in both sisters, which had sowed the seeds of their rivalry, Matthew seemed to prefer only his solitude. Perhaps his desire not to be entangled with either might finally broker a peace between them—a peace that poor Sybil had spent too long trying to arbitrate. And then there was Tom, the dreadfully annoying know-it-all brother she'd secretly always hoped for, but would never admit she'd ever wanted.

But being a sister was not her task today, so Mary pushed all thought of the church visitors out of her mind.

Spotting Lynch in the crowd, Mary made her way over to him to wait for the rest of the party. Mr. Napier and Mr. Pamuk, she noticed, had yet to arrive.

"Everyone's ready to set off, pending the arrival of Misters Napier and Pamuk," Lynch said. "Can you see them, milady?"

Mary looked around. "Not yet—oh, wait a minute, here is Mr. Napier." She turned her horse to face the new arrival and said, "I was beginning to give up on you. We're moving off."

"We were fools not to accept your mother's invitation and send the horses down early," Evelyn responded, lifting his hat to her. "As it is, my groom only got here an hour or two ago and my mount's as jump as a deb at her first ball."

Mary smiled. She had forgotten just how nice looking he was. "What about Mr. Pamuk? I gather if he takes a tumble, you will be endangering world peace."

"Don't worry about Kemal. He knows what he's doing on a horse."

"Well, where is he?" Mary asked looking around.

"Fussing," Evelyn said, practically spitting the word out. "He's rather a dandy."

Mary rolled her eyes, not particularly interested in spending more time with this third party than absolutely necessary. _He _would not be the focus of Evelyn's attention by the end of the day, if Mary could help it. "Well, I can see him now," she said. "A funny little foreigner with a wide, toothy grin and hair reeking with pomade."

"I wouldn't quite say that," Evelyn answered. "Here he is now."

Mary turned to get a look at the man approaching on her left.

No, Evelyn Napier had not swept Mary off her feet at first look.

He'd left that job for one Mr. Kemal Pamuk of Istanbul, Turkey.

Mary momentarily felt as if the wind had been knocked out of her. She did not yet know what love felt like, but she knew this was not it. Whatever welled in her stomach as she'd laid eyes on this man was something else all together. If she'd been forced to spit out an adjective at that very moment, she'd have settled on "sinful." For surely, beauty like this, in a man, could only be wielded for wicked purposes.

"Lady Mary Crawley, I presume?" Mr. Pamuk lifted his hat in greeting and Mary did what she could to collect herself.

"You presume right."

"Sorry to be so disheveled," he said. "We've been on a train since dawn and we had to change in a shed."

"You don't look disheveled to me," she replied with a coy smile.

At that moment, the huntsman blew his horn, gathering the hounds around him and starting into a trot to lead them off.

Mary, suddenly eager to shed her chaperone, quickly turned to the groom to dismiss him. "Lynch, you don't have to stay with me," she said.

"But His Lordship asked me to," Lynch protested.

"It's a waste of your day," Mary replied airily. "Help Mr. Napier's man get their things back to the house."

"His Lordship said—"

"Don't worry," Evelyn cut in, "I'll look after her."

"We'll make it our business to keep her from harm, I promise," added Mr. Pamuk.

The trio rode off, pushing their horses into a quick gallop in pursuit of the rest of the party.

Lynch dismounted and walked over to Robert, who was standing with Cora, Sybil and Carson by the door, but before he could say anything Cora spoke up.

"I'm sure Lady Mary is in fine hands, Lynch, no need for concern."

"Very well, your ladyship," he said with a slight bow. "I'll help see to Mr. Napier's things."

"Thank you, Lynch," Robert said. Turning to Sybil and Cora, as he moved to go back inside, he added, "Let's hope she's not too ambitious with the fences."

Cora smiled. "I have a feeling she's feeling more than ambitious today."

Sybil laughed and followed her parents inside.

"When do Matthew and Tom arrive to fetch you and Edith?" Cora asked, turning back to Sybil as they stepped into the entrance hall.

"Soon, I imagine" Sybil answered, "Edith said she and Matthew settled on their arriving at a quarter past ten, to give time for the hunters to clear off."

"Here they are now, milady," Carson called out from the door.

"Well, I'll be in the library if anyone needs me," Robert said, heading off in that direction, while Cora and Sybil walked back to the door.

Mother and daughter stepped outside again and, sure enough, the two young men could be seen riding up the driveway on their bicycles.

"Good morning," Matthew said, tipping his hat as they rode up.

"Good morning," Cora said, smiling.

"We saw the hunting party taking off," Tom said, hopping off his bicycle.

"You've just missed them," Sybil said.

Cora turned to the butler, who was still standing at the door. "Carson, please have Thomas come and take these to the garage," she said pointing to the bicycles. "And call Pratt to bring up the Renault."

"There's no need for that, Cousin Cora," Tom said. "I'm happy to walk to the garage myself and drive it up here."

"I'll come with you," Sybil said, walking over to him.

"All right then," Cora said, "I'll go tell Edith you've arrived, and I'll bring your hat and coat, darling, so you can leave as soon as she's here."

"Thank you," Sybil said. "Where is Edith, anyway? I thought she'd come to see the hunters off."

"I believe she's gone down to the kitchen. Mrs. Patmore has made a nice picnic for you."

"That's very kind," Matthew said.

"You can wait inside for her, if you like," Cora said signaling to Matthew to come in with her. He did, after leaning his bicycle against the wall adjacent to the door. Carson followed and closed the doors behind them.

Tom set his own bicycle next to Matthew's and turned back to Sybil. "Shall we?"

She smiled brightly and the two set off to bring the motor around.

"I should warn you," Tom said, "in the spirit of the honesty upon which our friendship is built, that I've been tasked with running interference between Matthew and Cousin Edith today."

Sybil stopped. Tom turned to see a horrified look on her face. "Interference?! What could you possibly have to interfere with? My sister's not on some military operation."

Tom smiled and tilted his head, a knowing look on his face.

Sybil's shoulders sank, but she smiled in spite of herself. After a moment, she narrowed her eyes at him and said, "Well, I'll have _you _know that _I've_ been tasked with giving Edith and Cousin Matthew plenty of time to themselves, and if you think you'll be getting your way over me, then you don't know me at all."

Tom burst out laughing, realizing how much more enjoyable today was going to be than he'd originally thought.

Ignoring his reaction, Sybil walked past him, nose in the air and playful smile on her face. She was about ten paces ahead of him when she turned to him again. "Are you coming or not?"

Tom ran to catch up, and they walked the rest of way to the garage. When they'd made it to the motor, he moved to open the door so she could climb in the back, but not seeing her, he turned and saw that she had sat herself up front instead.

"So it's going to be like that is it?" He teased, climbing in next to her.

She turned and raised her eyebrows at him. "Would you prefer Matthew or Edith ride next to you?"

Tom smiled as he eased the automobile out of the garage. "No, I most certainly would not."

**XXX**

So far, the ride had been invigorating. Little had been said between Mary, Evelyn or the foreign friend, but Mary could see that the two men were enjoying themselves. She didn't know just how well Evelyn and Mr. Pamuk knew one another, but it was obvious there was an easy rapport between them.

The party was nearing the narrow bridge that passed over the creek at the southern edge of Downton's grounds, so Mary pulled her horse up a bit. Looking around, she saw Mr. Pamuk pull up also, a bit away from the crowd. She guided her horse toward him.

"I hope the day is living up to your expectations," she said, a bit breathless from the ride.

"It is exceeding them in every way," he responded.

Mary blinked, accepting what he clearly meant as a compliment to her, a bit at a loss as to how a man could be both so subtle and so obvious at the same time. She looked around again. "And where's Mr. Napier?"

"He's gone over the bridge, look." Mr. Pamuk nodded toward where the party had amassed waiting to cross two by two.

"Ah." Mary looked back over to Mr. Pamuk who was the picture of boyish charm.

"And what about you?" He asked. "Will you follow him? Or will you come over the jump with me?"

"Oh, I was never much one for going 'round by the road."

Mr. Pamuk smiled widely. "Stay by me and we'll take it together."

There had been more behind his question than where to lead her mount, Mary could see. She felt a bit like Eve in the garden, tempted by the wily creature while her intended remained true to the path laid out by God. Perhaps if the setting had been different, Mary would have taken the proper, wiser course. But she was on her horse, and here of all places, she felt like the master of her fate, the rules her own to dictate.

Her answer suggested that she did not think she was the victim, but the temptress herself.

Still, it was Pamuk who took the lead over the fence and through the mud. She followed, not wanting to be left behind.

**XXX**

"Do you suppose we could go up into the belfry?" Sybil asked, as she, Edith, Matthew and Tom stood in the middle of the nave of St. Mary's Church in Thirsk, the third on their tour.

"Oh, I'd rather not," Edith said.

"Why not?" asked Matthew, turning to Edith. He had stepped forward into one of the pews to admire the gothic arches at closer proximity.

Sybil snickered. "Edith is not one for heights."

"I'd just rather keep my feet on solid ground, that's all."

Matthew smiled. "That's my preference also."

"Well, we're going to try," Sybil said pulling Tom by the arm to the narrow staircase to their right, at the end of the west arcade. Tom looked back at Matthew and shrugged, a helpless expression on his face and as he let Sybil pull him along.

Edith looked at Matthew with a nervous smile, wondering whether her sister had been too obvious—a word that had been haunting her since Mary had uttered it a few days before.

Matthew came back into the aisle and nodded his head toward the chancel. "I reckon these windows will be nicer to look at than the bird droppings they are likely to find up there."

Edith smiled, a bit more at ease, and followed him toward the front of the church.

Having made it to the top of the stairs, Sybil opened the church brochure she'd picked up on the way in.

"It says here that the tenor bell was the handiwork of a well known York bellfounder named John Potter. It was cast in the year 1410 and predates the battle of Agincourt, the War of the Roses and the Reformation."

Tom smiled. "So it's been converted."

"Converted?"

"It was a Catholic bell before it was Anglican."

"Do you feel more welcome here, then?" Sybil asked with a teasing smile.

"I do."

She looked at him for a long moment. "I feel silly admitting this, but it didn't occur to me until today that you'd be Catholic."

"Did you not notice that I am not at church on Sundays with Aunt Isobel and Matthew?" Tom asked, walking around the small floor space around the bells.

Sybil snickered. "I don't pay much attention while I'm at church, I'm afraid."

"Neither do I," Tom said with a laugh. "I suppose there is some comfort to be found in the ritual of it all and I do enjoy the opportunity to reflect on things, but I've never been one for the doctrine."

"But you do go to church?"

"I do." He smiled bashfully. "It's one of the few things mam and I do together on our own. That's part of the appeal, as well. My father was a very proud Catholic."

"Do you remember much about him?"

"Not really. Mam still has the suit he wore on their wedding day—that's about all he left us."

Sybil thought for a long moment about whether she really wanted to ask her next question. "Do you suppose . . . um . . . do you think that I could meet her someday, your mama? Would that be OK?"

Tom looked at her, surprised at the request. "I don't see why not."

They looked at one another for a long while, until Sybil finally broke the stare and looked back at the bells.

"How many more church schisms do you think they will survive?"

"Many more than we will."

Sybil looked back at Tom and said, "Perhaps, we should head back down."

"Lead the way," he said with a soft smile.

But when they were back down on the main floor of the church, Edith and Matthew were nowhere to be found.

"Have they left us?" Sybil asked.

"Well, Matthew doesn't know how to drive, so they can't have gone far."

"Let's wait for them outside. I much prefer the churchyard to the church itself."

"You don't like going to church, then?" Tom asked as they stepped out onto the front steps. They sat down at a bench shaded by a large willow tree, just south of the entrance.

"It's not that I don't like it, exactly," Sybil responded. "I do believe in God, but all the rest of it—vicars, feast days, and deadly sins. I don't care about all of that. I don't know if a vicar knows any more about God than I do."

Tom smiled as Sybil sighed and looked off into the distance. She was wearing her hair in a thick braid down her back, which made her look especially youthful. But her words proved to Tom, once again, how much wiser than her years she was, and how much deeper her understanding of the world than her level of experience in it.

Feeling his eyes on her, Sybil turned back to him. "What about you? What do you make of religion?"

Tom thought for a few moments about how to answer. Finally, he said, "Karl Marx called religion the opium of the people."

"And what did he mean by that?"

"He meant that religious belief and doctrine are used as tools by the upper classes and those in power to convince working people not to question their lot in life."

"How so?"

"Well, there's the divine right of kings to start. King George is king not because he happened to be lucky enough born to Edward VII, but because God willed it so."

"So, God wanted the king to be king so he arranged for him to be born at the right place at the right time?"

"More or less. If the king is a tyrant, but the people believe in God, they are less likely to revolt if they fear eternal damnation for questioning the decision by God to put him on the throne in the first place. But it's not just about who governs us, but how we govern ourselves as well. We're told that there is a greater reward waiting for us in God's kingdom, so we mind less the fact that there is no reward to be had here on earth. The meek are told that they shall inherit the earth so that they _stay _meek and don't fight for the land and rights that are rightfully theirs in _this _life."

"Is that what you believe, then? That God exists only to be a sort of manipulator of the masses?"

"I see some truth in it, but I also think it's human to want to find meaning in the things we do, to want to believe that there is a force greater than ourselves that brings all things together. I suppose I believe that there is such a force, but beyond that I don't know much."

"That's love, isn't it?"

"What's love?"

"The force that ties us all together."

Tom smiled at her. "Perhaps you should offer the homily tomorrow."

Sybil smiled. "I don't think the Reverend Mr. Travis would appreciate that."

"Well, there's another thing that's wrong with religion—no room for women at the top."

"You really are committed to the women's cause, aren't you?"

"In every way," he said, with a sly wink that made her blush slightly. "And Catholics are worse in that regard. Anglican clergy can at least count on the counsel of their wives. I've often wondered whether it's advisable to put one's spiritual needs in the hands of a man who's taken a vow of celibacy."

As soon as the word was out of his mouth, Tom turned a deep shade of red. He ventured a look over at Sybil, who was trying to hold back a smile, her own cheeks blushing slightly.

"I apologize," he said, "that was egregiously inappropriate."

"Perhaps, but it was honest and true. Remember that when talking to me that's more important than propriety."

Tom grinned. "You may turn out to be the best friend I ever have."

Sybil grinned back at him. "Good. Because you're already mine."

Tom raised his eyebrows at her. There were several meanings in her words—all of them true. "That's lovely of you to say," he finally remarked.

Sybil bit her lip, wondering whether she should have made that admission in such candid terms. "You're giving Gwen a good contest, anyway," she added quietly.

"Do you really consider your housemaid a friend?"

"Of course!"

"I know you're helping her find a job, but most would be doing that simply out of charity, not friendship."

"Being charitable is all very well and good, and I think it's terrific that people make their own lives, especially women. But more than anything, I'd like Gwen to be happy. Even if her departure will make me rather sad. I'm honestly not quite sure what I'll do without her when she's gone."

"You'll have me," he offered.

Sybil smiled. They remained there enjoying one another's company in companionable silence for a while before hearing Matthew call out to them from the front steps of the church.

"There you are!"

Sybil and Tom got up from the bench and came over to meet Matthew and Edith.

"Where did you escape to?" Sybil asked.

"It was an unfortunate series of events," Edith said, blushing a bit.

"The vicar saw us and invited us into the sacristy," Matthew said. "He thought we were a young couple looking to secure a location for our wedding. It was a bit awkward trying to extricate ourselves from the conversation with our dignity intact, but we managed. On the plus side, he suggested a spot for lunch."

"Oh? Where's that?" Tom asked.

"Apparently, beyond the cemetery and across the bridge there's a hill from the top of which you can see most of the county."

"Let's get to it!" Sybil said enthusiastically.

After Tom went over to the car to get the picnic basked, the foursome set off.

**XXX**

Their lunch eaten, Tom and Sybil walked back down the hill to the creek to give what was left of their bread to a flock of geese wandering about near the water.

Edith was sitting on the blanket Mrs. Patmore had packed them in the picnic basket, while Matthew walked around it, perusing the brochure from the first church they'd visited, reading random tidbits he found interesting aloud.

Sybil had managed to hold Tom's attention throughout their outing, but Edith hadn't made much progress with Matthew despite various attempts to make conversation with him. He'd been nice, but he seemed rather determined to stay focused on the topic of the churches.

"I wish we could talk a little more about you," she ventured again. "What was it like growing up in Manchester?"

"There's an interesting note here about the side aisles at Kirby. They were added in the 14th century by a Bishop Richard De Warren. That's something—six hundred years of worship."

Edith smiled. "It's wonderful to think of all those men and women worshipping together through the centuries, isn't it? Dreaming and hoping much as we do, I suppose."

"The screen was a Cromwell casualty, apparently."

Edith sighed, giving up. "Was it?"

Matthew folded up the brochure and sat back down on the blanket. He looked over to Tom and Sybil and saw that they'd gone from throwing the scraps at the geese to throwing them at each other.

"They're quite a pair, aren't they?"

Edith looked down to where Tom and Sybil were and suddenly felt as if this whole day had been arranged for Sybil's benefit and Edith was the chaperone sent to make sure no one had too much fun.

"I wonder how Mary's getting on," Matthew said lightly after a few minutes. He hadn't meant anything by it, but if he'd been looking at Edith when he'd spoken he'd have seen her shoulders visibly droop.

"All right, I should think. Why?"

"I just wonder. Will she stay with the hunt the whole day?"

"You know Mary. She likes to be in at the kill," Edith said with an eye roll.

Matthew looked to Edith and noticed that her demeanor had changed. He frowned, knowing that his lack of attention was the cause. He didn't dislike Edith, and he was probably being too harsh with her but he was a bit at a loss as to how to keep her attentions—persistent as they were today—at bay.

"Where shall we go next?" He asked, hoping to pick her mood back up.

"Not home?"

"Oh, not yet," he said standing up. "We've time for one more at least before we lose the light."

"I underestimated your enthusiasm."

"I hope we haven't worn you out today."

"Not at all," she said, taking the hand he was offering to stand up. "I'm enjoying it. We must do it again."

"Next time, let's bring my mother. She was so jealous she made me promise she could come with us."

"Of course," Edith said, not able to contain what was clearly recognizable as a regretful sigh. "How nice that would be."

As she bent down to pick up the blanket and picnic basket, Matthew watched her, wondering if there was something he could say to fix the wreck of a day he'd obviously made for her.

"Cousin Edith?"

She, still crouching, turned her head toward him. "Yes?"

"I should probably apologize for not being better company than I've been today."

"It's all right," she said. "I know I'm not considered the best company myself." She stood holding the basket and shrugged. "I'm used to it."

She turned to start walking back down the hill, when Matthew stopped her, putting his hand on her shoulder.

"I don't mean to trouble you with this knowledge," he said, "but you remind me of someone."

"Who?" Edith asked, with a puzzled expression on her face.

"You know, no doubt, that my fiancé passed?"

Edith nodded.

"You bare a slight resemblance to her. Lavinia, she, uh . . . she had similar hair color, the same fair skin."

Edith wasn't sure what to say.

Matthew went on, "More than that, Lavinia used to believe herself unworthy of the good things that happened to her. When I proposed, she was convinced it was because her father had asked me to do it and not because I really loved her. Her childhood was a difficult one, you see. Mr. Swire came into a great deal of money as a businessman as she was growing up. It gave the family a place in society, but most of the girls and later the young women she came to know didn't let her forget her family's humble beginnings. She was a rational person, and she knew she shouldn't listen to their hateful talk, but even so, over the years, she began to absorb, um . . . _internalize_ some of their criticism."

Edith looked down at her hands. "What does that have to do with me?"

"You shouldn't let anyone make you believe you won't ever be happy, even those who are family."

Edith looked back up to Matthew's kind eyes, her lips curving into a shy smile. "Thank you."

Matthew smiled. "I know I'll get married someday. I suppose I have no choice on that matter now that I'm required to have an heir."

Edith snickered.

"I'll sound self-serving saying this but it'll not be worth your trouble to wait for me to stop looking merely for a replacement for the one I lost and start looking for someone new in earnest."

"I appreciate your candor," she said. "And since you've been honest and kind with me, I won't hold it against you when you fall in love with Mary."

"I doubt that's likely," he said with a smirk.

"Oh, you will. Sooner or later, everybody does." She took his arm and pulled him along. "Now, let's go rescue the geese from these two."

Watching Tom and Sybil as she and Matthew approached, Edith thought the youngest Crawley sister might just be the first at the altar. She smiled at the possibility. Looking back to Matthew and holding his strong arm, she felt a rush of warmth and love, but not the kind that she had expected.

"Oh, Cousin Matthew, how different life would be if I'd had brothers."

Matthew laughed, and put his hand over the one holding his arm. "Well, now you have two."

"I'm glad."

"You know, Cousin Edith, even if nothing is to happen between us, I could be of help to you."

"How so?"

"Men love nothing more than the thrill of the chase, and that chase is made even more thrilling when there's competition."

Edith gave him a questioning look.

"Next time there's someone around you like, I'll show you what I mean."

**XXX**

"Is that one mine?"

Carson raised his hefty eyebrows and turned to see Thomas, the footman, behind him watching as Mary, Evelyn and Pamuk came in from the hunt.

"Home is the hunter, home from the hill," Robert said jovially, he and Cora approaching the group as they entered the house. He looked them up and down and noticed just how muddy they were. "Heavens, you have been in the wars."

It had been an invigorating day. Despite her initial protests and internal misgivings, Mary had enjoyed herself and couldn't help but relish in the striking foreigner's continued attentions.

"Papa, this is Mr. Pamuk," she said. "My father, Lord Grantham."

"How do you do, my lord?" Pamuk said, as the two shook hands.

"Did you have a good day?" Robert asked.

"Couldn't have been better," the Turk responded with a smile, his eyes landing on Mary.

Introductions concluded, Carson approached, Thomas on his heels. "This is Thomas, sir," he said to Pamuk. "He'll be looking after you."

At that same moment, Evelyn came up to the group.

Seeing him, Mary spoke up. "Mama, you remember Mr. Napier."

"Of course. How are you?" She said with a smile.

"So kind of you to have us, Lady Grantham," Evelyn said.

"And this is Mr. Pamuk," Mary added.

Cora turned to the foreign guest "How do you do?"

"My lady," Pamuk said, taking her hand with a deep bow and kissing it gently.

Robert raised his brow slightly in amusement at Pamuk's gesture. "Well, what would you like?" He asked the group.

"Just baths," Mary said with a sigh. "We're worn out."

Thomas took this moment to step forward toward his charge. "Your cases are upstairs, sir, if you'd like to follow me."

"Yes," Pamuk said with a nod and followed the footman away from the entrance hall and up the stairs.

"Well, I hope Mary hasn't left you too exhausted," Robert said turning back to Evelyn.

"No, not a bit of it."

"I believe Carson will be showing you to your room," Cora said.

"Indeed, milady," Carson said, stepping forward. "If you'd like to follow me, sir."

Evelyn gave a slight bow to Cora and Mary and proceeded upstairs behind Carson, his own valet following closely behind.

Turning back to her daughter, Cora asked, "So how was it, really?"

"It was fine . . . enjoyable. I'm glad I went," Mary said pointedly, knowing she owed her participation in the hunt to her mother. Cora smiled knowingly.

Mary was about to head upstairs herself when the sound of the motor could be heard outside.

"Oh, that must be the girls back with Tom and Matthew," Cora said walking to the door, Mary behind her.

"That's funny," Mary said, watching as the motor kept veering on and off the driveway. "I remember Tom a much more able driver than this."

"So do I," Cora said, quietly, her brow furrowing.

But Tom wasn't driving.

As the motor got closer, Cora and Mary could see that someone else was.

"WHAT IN HEAVEN'S NAME IS EDITH DOING!?" Robert, who'd come out behind his wife and daughter, screamed out as he walked past them well into the driveway.

The motor continued its wobbly path toward the front of the house until Edith, grinning from ear to ear, brought it to a stop. Tom, next to her, saw Robert's livid expression and prepared himself for the tongue-lashing that he knew would come, even as he could barely hide his mirth. Behind them, Sybil was holding onto Matthew's arm, head buried into his shoulder and eyes shut tightly.

Sensing that the car had stopped, she opened her eyes slowly. "Is it over, then?"

Matthew stepped out quickly and let out a long sigh, as if he, too, had been holding his breath with Edith behind the wheel.

"So . . . how was the hunt?"


	17. Chapter 17

_Thanks so much for your comments, as always! Another long one, but, again, nothing could be cut and I really didn't want to split it into two chapters._

_Quick note on Tom and religion: The baptism storyline showed us that canon Tom is a very proud Catholic, but it also made clear that his Catholic pride is tied to his patriotism ("my daughter is Irish, and she'll be Catholic like her father") which makes sense, given that Catholicism was so closely tied to Irish culture and identity. But socialists and communists have always had very strong feelings against religion, so it felt important to add that layer to his views in this story. Superficially it may seem like a big change in character, but I think that on questions of rules and doctrine (feast days, deadly sins, etc.), canon Tom probably agreed with Sybil's view. The difference between them was that he had a personal/cultural tie to his church and she didn't, which is why she didn't mind the baby being baptized into his church—something came to mean even more to Tom after she wasn't born in Ireland._

_That's a long-winded way of saying that although the Tom in this story seems more ambivalent about the Catholic church than canon Tom, the only real difference between them is that this Tom's ties to the church stem from his relationship to his parents, while canon Tom's ties to the church stem from his pride in his country. In this story, Tom's views/ties to Ireland are affected by his having been raised partly in England, but he does still feel Irish and that part of his background will come up eventually. _

_Also, I know there hasn't been much Matthew/Mary yet, but obviously, it's coming. The seeds of it start here._

_OK, here's part two of the Napier/Pamuk visit._

* * *

**Sunday, 1:05 a.m.**

He stepped into the dark room gingerly and called out to her, but there was no response. He called out again, but again heard nothing. He held his breath and stood in silence for several minutes.

The room was empty.

He walked to the adjacent bathroom, lifted the bed sheets, opened the wardrobe, looked behind the curtains.

Nothing.

He walked over to the bed again and stood over it. He leaned over and caressed the sheets slowly, imagining what he might have done here. He picked up one of the pillows from the head of the bed, brought it to his face and took a deep breath in. The air came out in a frustrated sigh. He looked around and felt anger welling in his gut.

Not wanting to waste any more time, he dropped the pillow on the floor and proceeded to the room down the hall.

_This one will be sorry, and she'll have her sister to blame._

**XXX**

**Saturday, 6 p.m., seven hours earlier**

"He doesn't look Turkish at all," Gwen said.

"Well, he doesn't look like any Englishman I've ever met," Anna said with a conspiratorial smile. "Worse luck. I think he's beautiful."

"What did Lady Mary say when she went up?"

"Not much, which is rare for her. I think she's a bit taken with him."

"Or she could have still been in shock over Lady Edith's driving."

This set the maids to giggling. They were out of doors, sitting at the table by the service entrance, shortly after having taken their afternoon tea and just before preparations, upstairs and down, would have to begin for dinner.

"What are you two going on about?"

Anna and Gwen turned to see O'Brien, who'd just stepped outside and was now in the process of lighting a cigarette.

"Mr. Branson teaching Lady Edith how to drive," Anna said, still smiling at the idea.

"Driving isn't what I'd call it based on her ladyship's description," O'Brien said crossly, "veering from one side of the yard to the other like common pub drunk. God knows what that fool young man was thinking."

"Don't you like Mr. Branson, Miss O'Brien?" Gwen asked.

"No, I don't," she replied. She took a long drag off her cigarette, and then continued, "Mr. Crawley at least has started to learn to behave with some dignity, seeing as he'll be earl. Mr. Branson does and says as he pleases. Don't know how the family stands his company."

"I dare say his lordship likes him very much, as does her ladyship," Anna spoke up.

"He's a charmer, all right," O'Brien spit out. "But he got his just desserts this afternoon."

"Was his lordship very hard on him about Lady Edith?" Gwen asked, genuinely concerned, knowing that a true rift between the two men would worry Sybil.

O'Brien smirked. "Couldn't you hear him? I swear if it were night he'd have woken half the county."

"I doubt his lordship will stay angry long—he was more worried than anything. "

The voice of Mr. Bates, Robert's valet, startled O'Brien, causing her to drop her cigarette as he stepped out the door.

O'Brien threw an angry glare at Bates. "Know his mind, do you?"

"Better than you," Anna said firmly.

O'Brien dug the cigarette she'd dropped into the ground with her shoe and headed back into the kitchen without another word.

Gwen watched O'Brien as she walked back inside, then turned back to Anna, who was smiling warmly at Bates. Looking back and forth between them, Gwen noticed a spark in Anna's eyes she hadn't seen before.

"So did Mr. Branson and Mr. Crawley go home?" Anna asked.

"No. They intended to, I think, but his lordship asked me to send for Mr. Moseley, so they'll be changing here for dinner."

"Was that why Mrs. Hughes had us make up extra rooms? Will they be staying?" Gwen asked.

"I don't know," Bates answered.

"Well, Mr. Carson will be ringing the gong soon enough," Gwen said standing, "I'm going up to our room for a moment before Lady Sybil is back upstairs and rings to get dressed."

"We'll see you later, then," Anna said.

When Gwen got to the door, she saw that Bates had occupied the spot she'd just vacated and Anna leaned in ever so slightly. Gwen smiled to herself and, as she went inside, she wondered exactly how Anna would have described the Turk if Mr. Bates had been present.

**XXX**

"Is it safe?"

A grinning Sybil walked into the library, where Tom had been sitting reading for the last half-hour, since Robert had laid into him about teaching Edith how to drive.

Tom stood up with a bashful smile. "I had it coming."

"Why?" She asked coming in and sitting down on the sofa next to him. "Surely, you don't agree with him that women shouldn't drive."

"You know I don't," Tom said sitting back down, "but the Renault is a delicate machine, not to mention expensive. Considering how much I preach about curbing frivolous spending, it was thoughtless of me to have played loose and fast with it like that. Better plan would have been to teach her here, where the driveway is clear and free of obstacles and other drivers." He leaned into her and added, "And free of distractions in the form of panicking passengers."

Sybil laughed. "She could barely manage to stay on the road! I genuinely feared for my life!"

"I would never let anything happen to you," Tom replied quietly and smiled as he saw her cheeks blush slightly at his words.

Sybil looked down. After a moment her soft smile broadened into a cheeky grin. "You better be careful what you say," she said, looking up at him again. "I'll be inclined to take greater risks if I know I have a rescuer at my beck and call."

"You certainly don't need me to be bold. I'm sure you are more than capable of being your own rescuer."

"You have more confidence in me than I have in myself."

"You don't lack confidence, Sybil, only the opportunity to demonstrate that you're a brave, confident woman."

They smiled at each other.

"So will Edith's lessons to continue?" She asked after a moment.

"They will, I'm happy to report."

"How did you convince him?"

"I just said that if there's an emergency and Pratt is unavailable, it would be useful for there to be another driver in the house."

"Very sensible of you."

Sybil looked down at his hands and noticed for the first time the book he was reading.

"What have you got there?" She asked.

Tom lifted it up to show her the title page.

"A Study in Scarlet. I see I've created a monster."

"I'm afraid you have. I can't put them down."

"When I gave them to you, you said you weren't much for mysteries."

"Only because they're usually so easy to solve."

"For you, perhaps."

"Mr. Conan Doyle takes some frustrating turns sometimes, but he has a knack for writing character as well as plot. I'm enjoying them very much. Thank you for the recommendation."

"You're quite welcome."

"What about you? Did you finish The Time Machine?"

Before Sybil could answer, Mary walked in with an olive-skinned gentleman quite unlike any man Sybil had ever seen.

"Sybil, Tom," Mary said, walking toward the pair who stood as Mary and the guest approached, "This is Mr. Kemal Pamuk. He's Mr. Napier's guest from Turkey. Mr. Pamuk, this is my youngest sister, Lady Sybil, and a close family friend, Mr. Tom Branson."

"How do you do?" Pamuk asked taking Sybil's hand and bowing down to kiss it.

Sybil, surprised at the gesture, looked to Mary, who was smiling widely.

"Did you enjoy the hunt?" Sybil asked.

"Very much. It was an exciting tradition to be introduced to."

"I've been showing him around the house," Mary said.

"Which is revealing its own appealing treasures at every turn."

Tom furrowed his brow slightly at the suggestive tone of Pamuk's words, but looking at Sybil, Tom couldn't tell whether she had recognized what Tom clearly saw as an advance.

"Lady Grantham said you were here for the Albanian talks," Tom said, wishing to take Pamuk's attention away from Sybil. "Must be quite thrilling to be a part of history and play a hand in the formation of an emerging republic—that is if a republic is allowed to form. I'm not confident Sir Edward Grey and the so-called great powers will take the necessary step beyond monarchical rule. Are you of their mind, or do you see a future for countries led by the people?"

"At the moment I'm entirely unconcerned with the matter," Pamuk responded dismissively, not bothering to look at Tom with his eyes firmly fixed on Sybil. "Business has been left behind in London. There is only pleasure to be had at Downton."

After he spoke, Pamuk turned back to Mary, and Tom could see that unlike Sybil, Mary was aware of and receptive to the foreigner's subtext.

"We should continue, Mr. Pamuk," Mary said, "otherwise we won't finish before the dressing gong sounds."

"After you," he said blithely, signaling to Mary to lead the way and giving Sybil a once over as he stepped away. Neither Sybil, nor Mary noticed, but Tom did, and the plain audacity of it shocked and angered him. Tom took a step forward so as to block the foreigners view as he was leaving, and Pamuk smirked as his eyes met Tom's before finally facing forward.

"I thought Mr. Napier was the one brought here for Mary," Tom said, as he and Sybil, alone again, sat back down.

"Me too," Sybil said, "though I don't suppose I blame her for making the switch."

"What are you talking about?" He asked, a bit alarmed.

"He was terribly handsome. I don't know any other Turks, but I'd like to know more if they're all so pleasing to the eye."

Tom let out a disagreeing "Humph!" and opened his book again and set to reading.

Sybil couldn't help but grin at the abrupt turn his mood had taken. "I'm only making an objective observation."

"Good for you."

"Are you angry with me?" Sybil asked, smiling.

"I'm not angry. Why should I be angry? I'm just trying to read my book."

"Well, you seem cross all of a sudden."

"You're imagining things."

"Would it brighten your mood if I said I don't find him nearly so handsome as you?"

Tom glanced at her and then quickly went back to his book, his lips turning up into a bashful smile. "A little."

She snickered at him and stood to go. He stood also. "I'm going to see if Gwen can chat for a bit before it's time to get dressed," she said.

"You never said what you thought of H.G. Wells," Tom said. "The Time Machine?"

"Oh, it's interesting, but I'm having trouble focusing."

"Why is that?"

"Any time I pick it up I feel preoccupied by the question of what I would do with such a machine—go forward or back. What would you do?"

"I'm enjoying present company too much to be interested in going anywhere else."

Sybil smiled. "I had a nice time today."

"So did I."

"I'll let you get back to your reading," Sybil said, turning to go and walking to the door. After she'd stepped out of the library, she peaked back in and watched Tom for a moment.

She smiled to herself and thought, _Who wants a Turk when there's an Irishman near?_

Sybil had only been gone from the library for a few minutes when Matthew came in.

"So you've survived Robert's tirade," Matthew said with a smile. He walked to the desk and sat down to look over some papers he'd brought in with him. He'd been talking with Carson regarding the state of the house's expenses before coming into the library.

"His bark is worse than his bite," Tom said. "But he did say I could keep teaching her if that's what she wanted."

"Well, I can't speak for Cousin Sybil, but I'll wait until Cousin Edith is a bit more expert before getting into the car with her again."

Tom laughed. "She wasn't that bad."

Matthew gave Tom a skeptical look.

"It's true! Remember that it was her first time behind the wheel," Tom said. "It took me much longer to even move forward. I would go as far as to say she's something of a natural."

Matthew smiled and went back to his papers. Tom watched him for a moment, before standing up and walking over to the desk. "So how did things go with you two?"

"Funny question coming from you."

"Me? Why?"

"I remember asking you not to leave us alone for long spells, lest things get awkward, but you didn't put up much of a fight on that front. In fact, I'd say you barely put up a fight at all. On the other hand, I am glad to know that if I ever need anything from you and you refuse to give it, all I need to do is get Cousin Sybil to ask and you'll offer it to her on a silver platter."

Tom rolled his eyes, laughing. "And what exactly did you have to fear at the hands of Cousin Edith?"

Matthew laughed lightly. "Nothing as it happens. We had a bit of a heart-to-heart and decided to be friends."

"That's good. But you should beware that this is just the start."

"Start of what?"

"You're going to be an earl. Do you honestly think fending off potential wives is going to get easier?"

Matthew sighed. "I'd rather just not think about it."

Tom waited for a moment before asking his next question. "I'm not trying to pressure you or anything, but do you think, um . . do you think you'll ever be ready to see any woman as more than a friend?"

"I'm not sure." Matthew scratched his head and leaned back in his chair. His eyes wandered around the library before landing back on Tom, who'd moved to stand directly in front of him on the other side of the desk. "I look around this house sometimes and wonder whether she would have liked living here, liked being a countess."

Tom smiled. "She'd likely have felt a bit overwhelmed by it all, but would have taken it in stride."

"She would have, except . . ."

"Except what?"

"Do you really think we would be here if she were alive?"

Tom shrugged. "I don't know, but wherever she is now I have no doubt she would want you to be happy."

Matthew looked away, avoiding Tom's eyes.

"Look, you know how I feel about country living and estates like this, but I do feel like you—"

"_We_, Tom."

Tom smiled. "Fine, _we _are doing something good, helping the tenants and the village, as well as the family. Don't let the good feeling that comes with accomplishment cloud the fact that you'll need someone to share it all with in the long run. You think that while you remember Lavinia there's no room for anyone else, but you loved her Matthew. Do you honestly expect to ever forget her?"

"I don't know what to expect."

"Memories of Lavinia are never going away. Hard as it may be to believe now, they'll coexist with the love you'll feel for your future wife, whoever she turns out to be."

Matthew looked back at Tom with something of a weariness in his expression. "I miss her, and I also miss just being with someone. That's where I am right now."

Tom looked at Matthew for a long time. "You know you're not the only one in this house who's lost the person they were going to marry."

"I know."

"So if you ever wanted to talk to someone. . . "

"What are you trying to do, Tom?"

"I'm merely pointing out that you have more in common with her than you think you do."

Tom let his words sink in, then turned and went back to the sofa with his book.

**XXX**

In the months since they'd moved to Yorkshire, Isobel, Matthew and Tom had grown accustomed to dining with Robert and his family. It wasn't like dinner at home at Crawley House, but there was a familiar rhythm to it now. The formality of it seemed less foreign, less imposing.

Part of what Tom didn't like about dining among the upper classes was that it felt as if everyone was playing a part instead of behaving as their true selves. From the ritual of sitting down to wait for Carson to announce dinner, to the hushed talk around the table, to the departure of the ladies—all of it was stifling to genuine, honest interaction. That was what their first dinner at Downton Place had felt like. But now, months later, the families having fully integrated and come to truly depend on one another, the artificiality of it all had faded away. It had started to resemble a family simply sitting down to break bread together.

But that progress was not in view tonight. Tonight everything felt different.

The presence of the two gentlemen guests altered the tenor of things, and once again everyone was playing a role to the end of seeing Mary matched. Further upsetting the balance, though, was the fact that Mary herself seemed to have forgotten this, having more or less forgotten the suitor invited on her behalf and lavishing attention only on his guest. Seated across the length of the table from Mary, who was between Evelyn and Mr. Pamuk, Tom could easily see the imbalance of their interaction. It wasn't especially obvious, but having seeing Mary and Mr. Pamuk together in the library earlier, he couldn't help but notice the continuing familiarity between them.

If dinner was pleasant in any way for Tom, it was only because on this night, he'd been given the rare pleasure of a seat next to Sybil. With Edith on his other side and Matthew on the other side of Sybil, the topic of their outing had dominated talk on their end of the table. Violet, sitting next to Edith, was quick to express her opinion on Edith's new interest.

"What exactly does a lady need to do with driving?"

"I just want to try something new, granny," Edith responded. "Haven't you ever discovered a new interest?"

"My faculties are sufficient for me to entertain myself without having to look the fool behind the wheel," Violet said.

Tom smiled and spoke up for Edith, "I can assure you, Cousin Violet, she did not look foolish—"

"I beg to differ," Sybil said with a snicker.

Edith let out an annoyed huff in response.

"Oh, I don't mean I don't support you Edith," Sybil said. "But you must admit that you were not very good."

"She'll improve with practice," Tom said.

"So this is to continue?" Violet asked a bit in shock.

"Papa said it was all right," Edith said, "as long as I remain in the driveway until both Tom and Pratt consider me ready to go beyond."

"Robert, is this really wise?" Violet said, turning to her son on her other side.

"Oh, Violet, there's nothing wrong with Edith having a little fun," Cora said, smiling.

"Mama, it's not a bad idea to have another driver in the house," Robert said. "Even if it is Edith."

"Thank you for the enthusiastic support, papa," Edith said with an eye-roll.

"What do you think, Mr. Napier, about the prospect of women driving?" Cora asked Evelyn, who was sitting next to her, wanting to draw him into the conversation.

"I can't say I've thought about it at all," he replied. "Before today, I don't know that such an idea would have ever occurred to me."

"Yes, well, you don't have a resident revolutionary," Violet said. "You'll find there's no idea that hasn't occurred to Tom."

Tom blushed a bit, having been surprised by the warmth—pride, even—in Violet's tone. "I wouldn't call myself a revolutionary, not much of one anyway, only a friend to the unconventional."

"All of that and political opinions to match," Pamuk spoke up, a spark of challenge in his words. "So much contrary thought must be exhausting to you, Mr. Branson."

"It's invigorating actually," Tom said, staring him down the length of the table.

Mary watched Pamuk's jaw tighten ever so slightly, and spoke up in an effort to diffuse him. "Well, I'll stick with Pratt for the time being."

"I'm sure it's all the talk downstairs as well," Matthew said, "someone should let him know Edith's driving will not put his job in jeopardy."

"Yes, best put a lid on that, Carson," Robert said, looking up to the butler.

"Of course, sir," he responded.

"I thought electricity was the worst of it, but if women are to be on the roads, who knows what else modernity has in store for us," Violet said.

"Must you always see modern innovation as the enemy?" Isobel asked.

"Must my desire for a simpler world always meet with attacks by you?" Violet retorted.

"Oh, granny, don't get upset, I think we all appreciate the idea of a simpler world," Mary said. "Do you Mr. Pamuk?"

"I do dream of a simpler world, as long as we can keep our trains and our dentistry."

Mary and Isobel, who was on Pamuk's other side, laughed politely in response.

After a moment, as the table moved on to other topics, Mary leaned into Pamuk and more quietly, said, "I wish I shared your enthusiasm. Our dentist is horrid."

"Why go to him, then?" He asked.

"He treated all of us when we were children. You know how the English are about these things."

"Well, the next time you feel a twinge, you must come to Istanbul."

"Wouldn't the journey be painful?"

"Sometimes we must endure a little pain in order to achieve satisfaction."

Mary shifted back toward the table, taken aback a bit by his words and the intensity of his eyes. She found him so alluring, but in his exchange with Tom she saw a momentary hardness that surprised her, and in that last comment she saw a glimpse of it again. Taking a sip of her wine, she shook her head slightly as if to chastise herself. Tom was expert at getting a rise out of people. Pamuk obviously had not liked Tom's question about the Albanian talks in the library. But he'd been charming and gracious all day. There was nothing in his last comment that she should be put off by, she told herself. _Nothing._

Turning back toward the rest of the table, she heard Evelyn say, "Lady Mary rode very well today."

"Why did you send Lynch back?" Robert asked her.

"I had my champions to left and right. It was enough."

"Did you enjoy the hunt today, Mr. Napier?" Robert asked. "Mary said you had a tremendous run."

"It was like something out of a trollop novel."

"What about you, Mr. Pamuk?" Cora spoke up. "Was your day successful?"

"Oh, yes, Lady Grantham. I can hardly remember a better one."

Tom couldn't help but roll his eyes at Pamuk's words and was caught in the act by Matthew who threw him a questioning look. Tom tilted his head slightly as if to say, "Later."

**XXX**

Matthew was making his way to the parlor behind Robert, Evelyn and Pamuk when he spotted Tom coming from the other direction.

As the three men ahead of them filed in, Tom and Matthew stopped just outside.

"Where've you been?" Matthew asked.

"The library," Tom said.

"All this time?"

"You know how I hate the whole 'the gentlemen can talk openly now that the ladies have gone' nonsense. I just didn't want to deal with it tonight. I was finishing my book."

"And what was that at dinner with Mr. Pamuk?" Matthew asked.

"I don't like him."

"Why?"

"I don't know, just an impression."

"Well, Mary seems taken with him. Do you suppose it means we're to see more of him?"

"Would Robert approve of someone who wasn't English?"

"I wouldn't have thought Mary herself one to foster an interest in a foreigner, so I suppose anything is possible."

Tom laughed, and the two of the walked in to join the rest of the party.

Mary noticed them coming in and saw that they immediately went to Sybil and Edith. The familiarity and affection among them obvious. She watched as Matthew said something that set Edith to laughing. Mary raised her eyebrows, supposing her younger sister to have had a successful day with their cousin. For reasons Mary could not pin down, in that moment, she felt a pang in her heart, not jealousy exactly, nor regret either, just an unspoken question as to what might have happened if she'd kept her frustrations to herself that first afternoon at Crawley House, if he'd not overheard her insolence. _Would things have progressed on a different course? Would she have wanted them to?_

Before she could contemplate the question, she felt a tap on her shoulder. It was Mr. Pamuk calling for her attention again. She smiled widely as she reengaged in her conversation with him and Evelyn as they revisited the hunt, eager to express their delight in her participation in it with them.

Across the room, standing at the hearth, Robert leaned over to Violet, who was sitting close to him.

"Mary has one more suitor tonight than we expected," he said.

"Will she judge them sensibly?" Violet asked, looking back at Robert with a skeptical smirk.

"Oh, no one's sensible at her age. Nor should they be. That's our role."

"You don't know your daughters if you think you can easily talk them out of anything," Violet responded. "You've already given into the whims of one today."

"Driving is hardly a whim, mama. I told you it will be useful."

"I can only assume Tom talked you into it."

"As a matter of fact he did, but that doesn't mean his argument was wrong."

"Well, I protested at dinner, but on second thought perhaps it'll do good for Edith. Get her out of her shell a bit. She'll need it when it's her turn in the spotlight."

"One at a time, mama, please. One at a time."

At that moment, Matthew approached them. "Cousin Robert, I meant to tell you that I spoke with Carson this afternoon, and he made the request again for the second footman. I went over the figures, and we should have enough. I would have mentioned it after dinner, but I didn't want to bother the guests with it."

"Quite right. I'm sure Carson will be happy with the news."

"I assume it'll not too be difficult to find one since a search was started before the move."

"You were the one who put a stop to it by hiring Mason as agent instead," Robert said.

Matthew smiled. "I did offer him the footman's post first."

"I can only assume he's doing fine," Robert said.

"Very well, indeed."

"His parents must be proud," Violet said. "He was a nice young man. Not so dour as the other one."

Robert laughed lightly. "Thomas does like to have his grumble."

"Since the house was still standing after a month without another footman, I didn't see the need," Matthew added. "But now that the work on the cottages has been completed with some reserve left, and Carson insists, I suppose I don't see why not. Anyway, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to pull Carson into the library to let him know. I just wanted to tell you first."

"Very good," Robert said.

"So you've handed the reins over completely," Violet said.

"He knows what he's doing," Robert said, watching Matthew and Carson step out of the room.

A few minutes later, Pamuk also walked out of the parlor, stealing away into a corner in hall, an unbridled eagerness in his eyes. Shortly there after, Mary followed.

"What is it?" She asked.

"Is this picture really a Della Francesca?"

"I think so. The second earl brought back several paintings from—"

He interrupted her words with a furious, uninvited kiss. Mary, initially too bewildered to protest, pushed him off as she felt herself backed against the wall.

"Mr. Pamuk!" She exclaimed, as quietly as she could but still trying to convey her surprise.

"Let me come to you tonight, please," he said excitedly, his hands still holding her arms.

"I can't think what I have said that has led you to believe—"

"Please. I don't know when we'll meet again. So let it be tonight."

Pamuk leaned in to kiss her again. Mary tried pushing him back, but had little room to move, budged against the wall as she was. Instead, she turned away and felt his lips on her neck, just below her ear. He'd brought her hand to her face and forcibly turned it toward him, when a noise in the hall caused him to let go of her all together. He turned and Mary peaked over his shoulder. The little that was left of her dignity—decimated at the hands of Pamuk—drained from her completely when she saw who it was.

Matthew.

"I wonder, Mr. Pamuk, if you might go back to the parlor. I'd like to have a word with my cousin," he said flatly, betraying little emotion.

"As you can see, Mr. Crawley, Lady Mary and I are having a tête-a-tête ourselves. I'm sure she'll be happy to talk to you some other time."

Matthew looked past Pamuk to Mary. Her eyes were cast downward, but Matthew noticed her shake her head ever so slightly.

"I'm afraid I have to insist. The matter is rather urgent."

"Surely, you won't mind waiting."

"Perhaps I'll fetch Cousin Robert in the interim, as the matter pertains to him as well."

Pamuk let out a forceful breath. "No need for that. I'll leave you alone."

Brow furrowed and jaw set to contain his frustration, Pamuk entered the parlor again.

Matthew stepped forward toward Mary. "Are you all right?" He asked in a whisper.

Mary looked up for the first time since Matthew had walked into the hall. His concerned expression was too much for her. "Please make my excuses," she said and ran toward the staircase.

He chased after. "Mary!"

But she waved him off and he stopped at the bottom of the staircase and watched her make her way up alone.

Matthew walked back to the parlor, still unsure as to what had just happened. He didn't want to mention what he'd just seen to Cora or Robert, knowing that Mary would see it as a betrayed confidence, but he was worried about her. He needed a way to make sure she was all right.

Once in the parlor, Matthew noticed that Pamuk had made his way to Sybil, who apparently had been left alone. Before Matthew had gone to speak with Robert, Tom had been pulled away by Cora and Isobel from where he, Matthew, Edith and Sybil had been talking together, and with them he remained, his back turned to where Sybil stood. Edith was now at the hearth with her father, Evelyn and Violet.

Quickly, Matthew went over to Sybil and took her gently by the elbow, saying, "Cousin Sybil, may I speak to you for a moment?"

"It seems you have a need to speak with all the young ladies this evening," Pamuk said.

"It seems you do as well," Matthew replied, leading Sybil away.

"Is everything all right?" Sybil asked quietly.

"No, I'm afraid Mary has gone to bed. She wasn't feeling well. Would you let your parents know."

"Of course," she said. Sybil was about to turn to go, when Matthew caught her arm again.

"Will you go to her tonight, once we've all turned in, and make sure that everything's all right?"

"Sure, but did something happen?" Sybil asked with a concerned expression.

"It's not for me to say. I mean . . . it may have been nothing. But will you do it?"

"I will."

Again Sybil turned to go and again Matthew stopped her.

"What did Mr. Pamuk say to you just now?"

"Nothing particularly. He asked why I hadn't come on the hunt today? I didn't answer honestly, I must admit. I said I didn't like to ride."

"What would your honest answer have been?"

"There was better company to be had elsewhere."

Matthew smiled as she made her way to her parents. He looked around and saw that Pamuk had left the room. Seeing Tom come up beside him, he turned.

"You were right about Mr. Pamuk," Matthew said.

"Oh?"

"Unpleasant fellow, to be sure. But I don't think Mary will want to see him again after all."

"Thank God for that," Tom said, taking a sip of his drink.

"Thank the Turk himself."

Tom looked at Matthew curiously, but that was the last Matthew said on the matter.

**XXX**

Later that night, as she lay in bed, Mary was so deep in thought over the events after dinner that she didn't hear the knock at the door. She almost rolled off onto the floor in fright when she realized someone had come into her room.

"Mary?"

"Oh, God, Sybil! You scared me out of my wits."

Sybil smiled and climbed into bed and laid down next to her sister. "Is everything all right?"

Mary nodded halfheartedly.

"You don't seem very convinced."

"It's all right. The evening took a turn I was not prepared for. I feel fine, just a bit humbled is all."

Sybil bit her lip, wondering if Mary knew who had sent her. "Cousin Matthew was worried about you," she said quietly.

Mary looked over at Sybil, then at her hands. "What did he say happened?"

"Nothing. Just that you weren't feeling well. He thought I should check on you once everyone had gone to bed."

Mary took a deep breath, feeling a lump rise in her throat. A small tear trickled out of the corner of her eye and did not escape Sybil's notice.

"Oh, darling, what's wrong?"

"Have you ever felt as if everything you thought you knew was right had been turned upside down and it turns out you don't know anything at all?"

Sybil sat up. "Mary, what's happened that has you talking like this? Please tell me."

Mary sat up as well, and wiped another tear from her cheek. "It's nothing really. I don't want to burden with it. I just . . . I've realized tonight that I was wrong . . . I've been wrong about a lot of things. The way I've behaved with men . . . it invites a certain type of ridicule—"

Sybil took her sister's hand, interrupting her and spoking rapidly. "Mary, no man has a right to make you feel ridiculous, no matter your behavior. A true gentleman should be so from the first to the last."

Mary smiled, but Sybil could see it did not reach her eyes. "Even so," Mary continued, "I've realized that the only good possibility that's been presented to me I dismissed out of hand before I could even realize how good it was. I'm just a little bit sad at how stupid I've been."

"You haven't been stupid. You've been clouded by grief and mama and granny's constant meddling."

"Well, thank you for your patience with me, but please don't let me prattle on." Mary hesitated for a moment, not sure whether she wanted to know the answer to her next question. "So how did Edith make out with Cousin Matthew today?"

"Very well, I think."

Mary felt her chest tighten. "Is that so?"

"They'll not be married, I don't believe."

A quiet sigh escaped Mary's lips. "Oh, no?"

"No, but they will be friends, and I'm of the firm conviction that a clear-eyed friendship with a man is better than anything else."

"Even if it leads to nothing?"

"Why should friendship not be a sufficient end in itself? Having a friend is not nothing. You should try it."

Mary laughed. "I don't think Cousin Matthew wants to be friends with me."

Sybil smiled. "You say that so often I have to wonder if the lady—"

"Doth protest too much?"

"Doth she?"

"I _doth_ too much of everything," Mary said, and eager to avoid the question, she continued. "What about you? Surely you don't think you will continue to escape this kind of scrutiny with your debut nearing."

Sybil looked at Mary for a long moment. "Well, since we're speaking openly of friendships."

"Yes?"

"Tom and I are friends," she said slowly and quietly, curious as to her sister's reaction, which was immediate.

"You like _him_!? Oh, Sybil!"

"What's wrong with Tom?" Sybil asked indignantly.

"Well, I don't suppose there's anything _wrong _with him, but he is rather full of himself, don't you think?"

Sybil laughed. "Terribly so! But would you believe, I find that rather attractive."

Mary rolled her eyes. "You would."

"He holds his convictions so firmly—even in the face of two so stubburn about tradition as papa and granny. And he knows and is interested in so many things—things that I want to learn about and experience. And he's the only person who doesn't mock my interest in wanting to know more than I do or to be something more than I am. He treats me like a real person, not just—"

"Not just a pretty doll he'd have his way with," Mary finished.

"Well . . . right," Sybil said, tilting her head slightly to watch Mary, who'd gotten quiet again.

Mary turned back to her sister. "I'm glad you have a good friend in Tom, Sybil, but don't rush into things. You're young. You don't know what's going to happen."

"I'm perfectly aware of my lack of knowledge about the future and everything else." Sybil hesitated for a moment, before continuing. "Will you not tell mama what I've just told you? I don't want her or anyone to make more of things between Tom and me than they are now and risk upseting the balance, as it were."

"Your secret is safe with me," Mary said, smiling sadly.

"And I wish you wouldn't dislike Tom."

"I don't. I don't know him so well as you, but if he's captured your interest he must be a good person."

Sybil smiled brightly at her sister.

Mary returned her smile and wished she could put this moment in a box and keep it forever. But she was now too aware of the uncertainty of the future that lay ahead—uncertainty about which she'd just warned Sybil and that suddenly loomed all too menacingly over Mary herself. Sybil would be happy. That much Mary knew. But would such happiness be available to Mary after so much time wasted. Was it too late?

Sybil sensed a change in Mary's mood and asked, "Are you sure you're all right?"

"I am, but would you fetch me a handkerchief from my wardrobe."

Sybil smiled and nodded. She hopped out of the bed and crossed the room. She'd just opened the wardrobe when someone barged into the room.

It was Pamuk.

He went to Mary's bedside so quickly, he did not see Sybil on the other side of the room.

"You must be mad!" Mary exclaimed, trying to pull herself away.

"I am. I am in the grip of madness."

"Please leave at once or—"

"Or what?" He asked threateningly.

"Or I'll beat you to a pulp!"

Pamuk was so startled by Sybil's voice behind him, he stood and, tangled on the duvet Mary had pulled over to cover herself, fell to the floor. Sybil stepped over him holding the fireplace poker over her head. Pamuk scrambled back then stood up.

"So here you are," he said, gathering himself.

"What are you talking about?" Sybil asked.

"I came to your room first," he said with a smirk.

Mary gasped and brought her hands to cover her mouth, but Sybil didn't budge. "Well, you would have met the same end because I have one of these in there too."

She swung the poker so the sharp end was sticking forward.

Pamuk stepped up to it, so it was just an inch from his chest. "You wouldn't dare use it."

"No? Test me, if you like."

He took a step forward, but all it got him was a sharp poke in the chest.

Mary saw him ball up his fists in anger and stood up behind her sister, putting her own hands over Sybil's on the poker. "Go now, Mr. Pamuk, before we use this against you."

He stepped forward again, and again was met with the sharp end of the object. The sisters would not yield their ground. He took a deep breath, then turned and walked out. Sybil ran to the door, slammed it behind him and quickly locked it. She turned and saw that Mary had put down the poker and was now kneeling on the floor crying.

"Mary, it's all right, he's gone."

"He would have ruined us! Oh, I was so stupid!"

Her words concerned Sybil. "Mary, wait, did something happen with him before."

"He tried. . . but nothing . . . Matthew stopped him," Mary said between sobs. "It was just in the hall outside the parlor."

"Oh, my dear!" Sybil pulled her sister into her as Mary continued to sob, ruing the future they would have met as outcasts now plain before Mary's eyes.

Mary pulled back. "Oh, Sybil if he'd hurt you—"

"I wouldn't have let him. And I wasn't going to let him hurt you. Everything's all right. He'll be gone tomorrow and we never have to see him again."

The sisters hugged again, and remained holding one another on the floor until Mary's sobs had calmed into soft sighs. Sybil gently pulled her sister up and sat her down on the bed. "Do you think you can sleep? Would you like me to ring for some tea?"

Mary took a deep breath. "I'm fine. But will you stay?"

"Of course. I'm just going to go check on Edith."

"I'll come with you."

Quietly, the sisters stepped out of the room. They walked down the hall to Edith's room, with Sybil holding the poker tightly. When they reached Edith's room, Sybil opened the door gently. Finding her soundly asleep, they both breathed a sigh of relief.

With no sign of Pamuk anywhere close, the sisters went back to Mary's room, where they crawled into bed and after calming themselves from the commotion fell asleep, with the door locked and the fireplace poker between them.

They were woken up early the next morning by a light knocking on the door. Mary went over to the door.

"Who is it?"

"It's Anna, milady."

Mary opened the door to let her in. "Sybil's spent the night here, in case anyone missed her and was worried."

"No, I don't think anybody has. It's very early yet. I just came up to tell you the news."

"News?"

"About Mr. Pamuk."

Mary and Sybil looked at one another in alarm.

"What happened?" Sybil asked. "Has he done something?"

"No, it's . . . well, there's no good way of saying this . . . apparently, he had some sort of heart attack or something over night."

"What is it, Anna?" Mary asked.

"He's dead. "


	18. Chapter 18

_Thanks so much, as always, everyone for reading and reviewing. _

_This chapter covers the rest of series one, episode three and the aftermath of Pamuk's death. Speaking of which, just so it's clear: Pamuk died of natural causes. That's what I always assumed happened on the show. A massive heart attack or stroke or an aneurysm can, in fact, happen to a young person who is seemingly healthy. _

_Also, I just signed up for tumblr (magfreak tumblr com, putting periods where the spaces are) and I'm probably going to be putting more of my chapter/character notes there, so I don't keep writing 300-500 word author's notes before each chapter :)_

* * *

Tom and Matthew hadn't needed to spend the night at Downton Abbey, but it was fortunate that they did.

The evening party had threatened to disperse immediately after Mary had gone upstairs, but Cora, wanting to keep Evelyn entertained even in her absence, asked Tom and Matthew to converse with him for a while. Eventually, when Isobel was ready to return home, Pratt drove her alone while the two young men stayed behind. Violet took her leave shortly thereafter.

Tom, Matthew and Evelyn ended up in the billiard room late into the night. By the time they were finally ready to turn in, Tom and Matthew learned that Pratt had gone to his cottage for the night and didn't see a need to wake him for a ride back to Crawley House. The maids having gone to the trouble of making up rooms for them, the two decided they'd not let the work go to waste. There was also the nagging feeling in the back of Matthew's mind regarding Pamuk's behavior toward Mary and his continued presence in the house. Matthew resolved in his own mind to stay until the man was gone for good.

He'd only just woken when he heard a loud clatter.

Matthew and Tom had stayed in the bachelor's corridor, along with Evelyn and Pamuk. So when Thomas, on stepping into the Turkish guest's room and seeing his dead body on the floor, dropped the tray of breakfast silver he'd been carrying, the other three young gentlemen also sleeping in that wing of the house came quickly to investigate.

Tom was the first in the room. "Mother of God! What's wrong with him?"

Thomas, still somewhat in shock, could barely stammer out a response. "I . . . I don't . . .I just came in with the tray—he was like this."

Tom slowly walked over to the corpse and bent down to grab his wrist to try to find a pulse. He looked up to see Matthew and Evelyn at the door. All of them waited in silence, but there was no pulse to be found. Tom slowly lowered the dead man's hand down to the floor again and shook his head.

Evelyn stepped in and kneeled down by Pamuk's head. He looked up to the rest of the room and, not addressing anyone in particular, said, "What am I going to tell them?"

"We should get him back on the bed," Tom said quietly.

Matthew walked the rest of the way in and put his hand on Thomas's shoulder, startling the footman with the gesture. "Go down and tell Carson to send someone for Dr. Clarkson, then have a hall boy come stand guard by the door until the rest of the house is alerted. No one should see him like this."

Thomas left quickly without another word.

Evelyn moved to lift Pamuk up and Tom came over to help him. They deposited him on the bed and Tom carefully pulled the duvet over his head.

"What do you suppose happened?" Evelyn asked.

Tom shrugged. "Cardiac arrest, stroke, vertigo caused him to fall and hit his head on the floor—any number of things."

"We'll speak on your behalf as to his treatment here," Matthew said quietly to Evelyn, "if it comes to that."

Evelyn nodded. "I appreciate it, thank you." He let out a sigh. "It's going to be a long day. I best get dressed."

Tom and Matthew watched him as he left the room.

"How do you think the family is going to react?" Tom asked.

"I honestly don't know," Matthew responded.

Downstairs, Thomas tried to explain the turn of events to a shocked staff gathered around the dining table in the servants' hall. He'd barely finished talking when Carson quickly called Joseph and Peter, the house's hall boys. Joseph was dispatched to fetch the doctor and Peter was to go upstairs.

Once Joseph had run out the door, Carson turned back to face a bewildered audience. "Well, don't just stand there! Plenty of work still in need of doing!"

The crowd quickly went about their duties, exchanging looks of shock and sadness at the sudden death of the foreigner they'd all been so intrigued by the day before. Carson was about to head back to his office when he was stopped by Peter.

"Mr. Carson, sir. I don't know which room the gentleman was staying in to go guard it. Don't want to go in where someone may still be sleeping."

Before Carson could answer, Anna stepped up behind Peter. "I'll take him, Mr. Carson. Gwen and I made up the room."

"Very well, thank you, Anna," Carson replied.

The two headed up the stairs and found Tom and Matthew waiting for them. Anna picked up the tray Thomas had dropped and the young men went back to their rooms to change, leaving Peter standing guard at the door. Anna headed back to the servants hall, but when she got to the top of the back stairs, she changed course.

Mary had not yet rung, but Anna, suddenly worried about her charge's reaction, decided she needed to deliver the news herself—even if it meant waking Lady Mary to do it. Once at Mary's door, Anna set the tray down on the floor and knocked lightly.

**XXX**

Sybil quietly opened the door to her room and looked around.

_He _was _here_.

The doors to the wardrobe were open, the curtains were askew and the bed sheets had been pulled back from the bed. A pillow was lying in the middle of the floor. Sybil took a step inside and closed the door behind her. She walked over to the pillow, picked it up and hugged it to herself. Then, she sat down on the edge of her bed and closed her eyes.

Sybil tried to picture the moment Pamuk entered Mary's room, to remember what went through her mind as she watched him launch himself at her sister, and to recapture the feeling that coursed through her and compelled her to run to the fireplace for the poker. But she couldn't. Trying to think of last night's events now, they only felt like a dream, or a vivid story someone had told her but that she hadn't actually lived herself. In fact, only a single detail remained as vivid to her as when she'd lived it—her assurance to Mary that they would never see Mr. Pamuk again. But as she thought of them now, those words were fraught with new meaning.

Sybil had encountered death before.

There was her grandfather Levinson whose death had affected her mother deeply, but who was, to Sybil, only a person who existed in the abstract. His death had barely caused a ripple in her life. After all, how could she miss someone who had been absent most of her life, whom she had met only once and who remained even now just a collection of secondhand memories.

Then there was her grandfather Crawley, someone with whom she shared a closer bond, but whose death still only affected her in so far as it affected those around her.

And then, of course, there were her cousins James and Patrick. No deaths had had a more significant effect on her life than theirs, not merely because they were loved ones she had known and been in close contact with her whole life, but also because of the consequences of their deaths that her family had had to live with. Consequences that were playing out even now.

And yet, in this moment, it did not seem to Sybil as if those deaths had affected her so viscerally as Pamuk's was affecting her now. James and Patrick had perished somewhere far away. There was no distance in this case. What's more, in his final hours of life, Ladies Sybil and Mary Crawley saw first hand an apparently deceptive youthful vigor in one Mr. Kemal Pamuk of Istanbul, Turkey. Sybil was old enough to understand exactly what he had been after in coming to her room and Mary's. And what greater expression of life—for good or ill—is there than that?

He was arrogant, aggressive, _alive_. And now he wasn't. The seeming paradox in it shook Sybil. Pamuk had sought to assert himself, to act in a way that would have likely changed her life, but his sudden death suggested he was not even the master of his own.

Sybil supposed she should infer from his dying that her own fate was out of her control, but as of this morning that was something she was no longer willing to accept. Not after last night. Because the truth was, she _had _changed her fate. She had defended herself and her sister. She had not allowed him to dictate the outcome. Tom had told Sybil that very afternoon that he thought her brave and confident, and only lacking in an chance to demonstrate that she was. Pamuk, for better or for worse, had given her one. She was not grateful for Pamuk's invasion of her sanctuary, nor of his assault, literal and figurative, on her sister's confidence, neither did she believe she owed him anything, but Sybil hoped that wherever Pamuk was, he knew that though he'd intended to subdue her, he'd actually done the opposite.

Because whether or not future events in her life turned out in her favor, Sybil would know, from now on, that she wasn't powerless.

**XXX**

Mary's reaction to Pamuk's death was markedly different from her youngest sister's.

In a few hours, he would be gone from the house and in a few days, perhaps, forgotten altogether. Or so Mary kept telling herself in an effort to be convinced that eventually she could pretend that none of it—not the hunt, not the flirting, not the horrifying intrusion, not his death—had ever happened.

After learning about Pamuk's death, Mary and Sybil had decided there was no point in telling anyone what he had done. It seemed senseless to besmirch the reputation of a man who could no longer hurt them when the consequences of so doing would be needless worry for their parents and diplomatic complications for Evelyn. It had been Mary's stated preference, and Sybil accepted her sister's request. After all, in the assessment of the previous evening's events, Sybil had the advantage of not having exchanged but a few words with Pamuk. Her impression of him, based largely on their confrontation in Mary's room, was negative, and so she had nothing to fear in the memory of what had happened. This was not possible for Mary.

Mary had been taken by his good looks, had been won over by his charm, and had felt emboldened, falsely as it turned out, by his attentions. He had stolen a kiss from her, and if it had been left at that, Mary would have eventually convinced herself that she had invited it. Mary might have even come to see it, in time, as a happy memory. So despite his now obvious ill intentions, she could not divorce her enjoyment of his company from what he later revealed to be his true expectations. She was faultless—for who could blame a young woman instructed to be enticing to gentlemen for being just that. But she did not see herself as faultless. So while she wished she could simply erase the last two days from her mind, she also couldn't stop thinking about them. And not just because of Pamuk.

There was Evelyn, a sweet, unassuming man to whom she'd barely given a chance. And who now was surely ready to dismiss her, given her swift dismissal of him.

And there was her cousin, to whom she'd given no chance at all. She had once considered Matthew not good enough for her, and now, in wake of the blow her confidence had taken, she wondered whether the opposite was in fact true.

Looking at herself in her vanity mirror, already dressed for the day, Mary considered how Matthew and Evelyn would react if they knew of what Pamuk had tried to do—and how they would react if he had been successful?

She stood from her seat and resolved to go downstairs and face whatever there was for her to face. She was angry at Pamuk and at herself and she was sad at the same time. But she didn't want to be alone with her thoughts, not when her thoughts continually caused her to question everything she knew of herself, of what she wanted and of _who _she wanted.

As she walked down the main staircase, Mary saw Evelyn walking across the hall in the direction of the library.

"I imagine you've heard what's happened," he said gravely.

"Yes."

He looked down and started fidgeting with his hands. "Terrible thing. Awful. Ghastly for your parents. I don't suppose I shall ever make it up to them."

"It wasn't your fault."

He took a tentative step toward where Mary stood on the landing. "Well, I brought him here. If it isn't my fault, whose is it?"

Mary avoided his eyes for a moment, then took a deep breath to collect herself. "I suppose if it hadn't happened here, it would . . . um, it would have happened elsewhere. Better to deal with an uncomfortable situation among friends."

Evelyn blinked in surprise at her words. He took another step forward, wondering if perhaps all was not lost. "I was wondering if you might show me the gardens before I go. We could get some fresh air."

The request took Mary aback. He was giving her a fresh start, when she'd assumed they'd both wash their hands of the failed match and move on. But for Mary this morning was too soon to start again.

"I won't, if you'll forgive me" she responded quickly, "I ought to s—stay and help Mama."

"Of course," Evelyn said quietly. He bowed slightly and turned to leave. But he'd only taken a single step before he turned again. "I am so sorry about all this. I've told your father I'll deal with the embassy. There won't be any more annoyance for you."

"Thank you."

"Actually, he was a terribly nice fellow. I wish I could have known him better. I took him on as a duty, but I liked him more and more the longer I knew him."

Mary felt a lump rising in her throat and tears burning in her eyes. She wanted to relieve herself of the anger she felt at Pamuk and relieve Evelyn of the guilt he felt over Pamuk's death, but there was nothing she could say short of the revelation she'd resolved not to make, a revelation that might alter Evelyn's opinion of her. She felt paralyzed.

Mistaking her emotion for grief over the one she'd obviously preferred, Evelyn added quietly, "Perhaps you saw his qualities for yourself."

Mary wiped an errant tear from her cheek and walked down the rest of the way to be at eye level with Evelyn, not wanting his last impression of her to be her interest in Pamuk. "Mr. Napier, please don't mistake me. I would walk out with you if I believed myself capable of matching your grace on a day like today, but I am a foolish girl who does not know her mind or heart. Mr. Pamuk's attentions . . . well . . ." She took a deep breath, then continued. "My vanity was flattered, and that's bad enough on its own. I won't have you believe me a fickle person and make myself a further disappointment to you by pretending I did not ignore you yesterday. You are a good man, and I hope we may be friends."

The words were spoken from the heart. It was as honest as Mary had ever been with any man.

Evelyn's lips turned up into a smile that did not quite reach his eyes. He _was _disappointed, but not in her. By having preferred Pamuk over him, Mary had undercut his own vanity and, worse, dashed his hopes. He believed now that she was only trying to soften the blow. Perhaps if he knew what had happened, if he'd been privy to the conversation she'd shared with her sister last night, he'd see in her sincerity an invitation not to give up, not yet. As it was, he couldn't comprehend anything beyond what he believed she meant by the word "friend."

"Thank you, Lady Mary. You are too hard on yourself," he said finally.

"So are you."

He bowed again, and then turned and was gone.

_Maybe if Pamuk hadn't come_, Mary thought, watching him walk away, _things might have turned out differently_.

But having said her piece, Mary would not second-guess herself. Pamuk's appearance, his actions, revealed to Mary an improbable truth. She was not ready for marriage—whatever her mother and grandmother might say to the contrary. She needed time and patience, and if Evelyn Napier could not hear that in her words just now, then he was not the man she was meant for.

**XXX**

After leaving Lady Mary at the stairs, Evelyn walked to the library, where he found Robert, Tom and Matthew.

Hearing him enter, Robert stood. "Matthew and Tom have told me you've squared things away with Dr. Clarkson."

"Yes, he said the hospital workers will be by for the body in short order. They'll make the arrangements for the train ride back to London. I'll have arrived before and be there to receive it."

"Were you able to collect all his things?" Robert asked.

"Yes, my man took care of everything. Lord Grantham, I'm terribly sorry about all this."

"Who could have foreseen it?" Robert said quietly.

Evelyn turned to Matthew and Tom. "Gentlemen, I wish we had met under kinder circumstances."

Tom stepped forward to shake Evelyn's hand and Matthew followed suit.

"Best of luck on the continuing talks," Tom said. "I hope this doesn't derail things for you."

"No, I shouldn't think so. And, please, don't hesitate to let me know when you're next in London." He paused for a moment. "Is Lady Grantham down? I'd like to say my goodbyes."

"I think she went to get some fresh air, but she shouldn't be far," Robert said.

"I'll see her on my way out then."

"Pratt is on his way, my lord."

The men turned to see Carson at the door.

"I suppose that's my cue," Evelyn said with a small smile, turning to go.

Out of the library, Evelyn went into the entrance hall, where he met his valet, who, upon seeing the expression on his employer's face immediately held up his coat. Evelyn half-smiled at the fact that the man knew him so well. He turned to slip the coat on, then took his hat and gloves from him and stepped outside.

Seeing Cora in the distance, he walked toward her.

"Lady Grantham!" Evelyn called out. "I've come to say goodbye. They're bringing the car around to take me to the station."

"Have you said goodbye to Mary?"

"I have."

"Will we be seeing you here again?" She asked, hopeful.

"Nothing would give me more pleasure, but I'm afraid I'm a little busy at the moment," he began, but seeing Cora's eyes, he faltered. He could continue the charade, or he could be honest. Mary had been honest. It had not been in his favor, but in a sense, she had freed herself from the artifice that had brought him here in the first place. Suddenly he felt the need to do the same.

"I wonder if I might risk embarrassing you," he began again, "because I should like to make myself clear. The truth is, Lady Grantham, I'm not a vain man. I do not consider myself a very interesting person, but I feel it's important that my future wife should think me so. A woman who finds me boring could never love me, and I believe marriage should be based on love." He laughed at himself, at the idea. "At least at the start," he finished quietly.

Cora smiled, realizing what he was telling her, the words and the sudden familiarity they conveyed making her wish that he had been enough for her daughter.

"Thank you for your faith in me, Mr. Napier. Your instincts do you credit. Good luck to you."

As she watched him walk away, Cora furrowed her brow, wondering what exactly had been said between Evelyn and Mary this morning.

Even having been the one who'd initiated the possibility between them, Mary had lost interest rather quickly, which made Cora wonder whether her daughter had merely been going through the motions. Cora supposed that the foreigner's looks and charms had done a number on Mary, but Cora had also believed Mary more sure of herself than to be swept off her feet quite so easily—especially when there was a goal in mind. In that moment, Cora blamed what she mistakenly perceived as her daughter's lingering immaturity for what had happened, or failed to happen, with Evelyn. Frustrated, but resolved to let things be for the time being, Cora walked back to the house.

Once inside, Cora found her daughters sitting quietly in the parlor. She walked in and sat down, smiling quietly, not wanting to stir their thoughts. She hadn't been there five minutes when Carson stepped in to announce Violet.

"The Dowager Countess," he said solemnly.

"Oh, my dears, is it really true?" She exclaimed, walking in. "I—I can't believe it. Last night he looked so well." She walked over to the armchair and to sit down, adding, "Of course, it would happen to a foreigner. It's typical."

"Don't be ridiculous," Mary snapped.

"I'm not being ridiculous," Violet said indignantly. "No Englishman would dream of dying in someone else's house. Especially someone they didn't even know."

"Oh, Granny," Sybil spoke up, looking up from her embroidery. "Even the English aren't in control of everything."

"Well, I hope we're in control of something, if only ourselves."

"But we're not!" Mary insisted. "Don't you see that? We're not in control of anything at all!"

Mary walked out of the room angrily before anyone had a chance to react to her outburst. Her anger had largely dissipated since her talk with Evelyn, but what lingered had been stoked by Violet's characteristic superiority. It was all Mary could stand.

Cora sighed. "Edith, go and tell Mary to come back at once and apologize to her grandmother."

Edith stood, but Violet stopped her.

"No, leave her alone," Violet said. "She's had a shock. We all have. Just let her rest."

Sybil stood and moved to follow her sister. "I'll go talk to her."

Cora grabbed Sybil's hand. "Sybil, I think it's best if—"

"It's all right, mama," Sybil said. "I know what's wrong."

Cora looked at Sybil curiously but let her go.

"Excuse me," Sybil said, stepping out of the room after Mary.

Knowing that a restless mind always took her oldest sister out of doors, Sybil walked through the entrance hall to the main doors. But stepping outside, Sybil saw no sign of Mary. She walked out into the driveway, and the start of the path to the village, but still couldn't see her. She sighed.

Sybil considered walking around to the gardens, where it was perhaps more likely Mary might have gone, but then wondered whether solitude might not be what Mary needed after all. Sybil understood what Mary was thinking and feeling more than her mother and grandmother would, but that fact wouldn't necessarily make her own hovering any less bothersome to her sister. Mary was nothing if not the selfish guardian of her own mind. Sybil respected that and acknowledged that she would come around on her own time.

As Sybil turned to go back to the house, she saw Tom stepping out of the doors.

She smiled, happy and hopeful for the first time that day.

"I thought you'd gone," she said as he walked in her direction. "At least, I assumed as much when I didn't see you at breakfast."

Tom lifted his hat in greeting. "Matthew and I stayed with Mr. Napier while Dr. Clarkson was here. Didn't want him to shoulder the burden of seeing to, um . . . well, to the remains alone."

"That was kind of you."

Tom shrugged. "Ugly business." He paused and his expression softened. "Are you all right?" he asked quietly. "I'm sure it was a shock."

"It was . . . he was so young."

"As Aunt Isobel would say, in the midst of life, we are in death."

"He was about Patrick's age if I were to guess," Sybil said. "But he and Cousin James died in a great tragedy that took many others . That fact offered a measure of . . . comfort? That's not the right word."

"It is, actually. I understand your meaning, anyway. Patrick and James weren't alone at the time of their deaths, and you and your family weren't alone in your grief for them. There _is _comfort to be found in that. Suffering is easier to cope with when it may be shared. The specificity of a death like this, especially when the affected party is essentially a stranger to us . . . well, it feels rather cruel, doesn't it?"

"Do you suppose he suffered much?"

"Dr. Clarkson said it was likely a stroke, a blood clot or a blood vessel rupturing in his brain. It would have been instantaneous."

Sybil smiled. "Thank you for not sparing me the details."

Tom smiled in return. "I should be off or mam will head to church without me. She likes to go to the early service."

"I'll walk to the gate with you," Sybil said, and the two fell into step together.

"What have you got there?" Tom asked pointing to the swatch of fabric in her hands.

"Oh, it's silly," Sybil said hiding it behind her. "I'm afraid the pastimes allowed for women are not very interesting. I do it when I want to keep my mind from wandering but I'm feeling too restless for a book."

"May I see it?"

Reluctantly, Sybil handed over her work. It was an embroidery of a bouquet of bluebells. "They're my favorite flower. Though I've not really done them justice, I'm afraid."

Tom smiled at the work, clearly that of an unsteady hand. "Your faculties are probably just waiting to be given a greater office to unleash their full potential."

They stopped when they reached the gate and stood silently for a moment, each waiting for the other to speak. Tom handed her embroidery back to her.

Finally, Sybil said, "I'd like to thank you for what you said yesterday, in the library."

"Which part?"

"About me being brave and confident."

"It didn't need me saying it to be true, but nevertheless, you are most welcome."

He smiled at her and Sybil felt a rush of affection that begged her to show him how much his friendship meant to her. Before Sybil realized what she was doing, she took two steps forward and wrapped her arms around his midsection. Tom was momentarily startled at the gesture, but after a moment returned the embrace. Sybil closed her eyes as she turned her head and leaned into his strong shoulder, feeling his arms wrap around her tightly and his fingers tangle in the tips of her hair, which hung in a long pony tail down to the middle of her back.

If a fear of death in youth had bothered either of them that morning, now it was gone.

Sybil stepped away, her cheeks blushing slightly. His too.

"You also said you wouldn't ever let anything happen to me," she said.

He nodded, still a bit too stunned to speak.

"Well, I won't ever let anything happen to _you_. So we'll both be safe from everything that may happen."

They laughed at the absurdity of what she'd said, but found comfort in it just the same.

Without any more words they parted.

**XXX**

On the other side of the house, Matthew stepped out to walk around the gardens. He hadn't explored this area of the grounds all that much and wanted to get away from the house for a bit after the unpleasantness of the morning. Tom had asked Matthew if he'd wanted to walk home together, but Matthew remained resolute in his decision to remain there until Mr. Pamuk was out of the house.

"There's not really much to see this time of year."

Matthew turned to see Mary coming up behind him.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you," she said.

"It's all right."

"It's really quite beautiful in the spring."

"I can imagine."

Mary and Matthew looked at one another for a long moment.

"Cousin Mary—"

"I should—"

They laughed softly. He nodded his head, gesturing for her to speak.

"I must apologize for leaving so hastily last night. It was terribly rude. Especially considering what you'd just saved me from."

"Please don't concern yourself with that." Matthew looked down for a moment. "I won't make assumptions as to his intentions—"

"Then you are too kind," Mary cut in.

Matthew narrowed his eyes at her, then continued, "but I hope he did not hurt you, physically or otherwise."

"He didn't, not terribly. None of that matters now, anyway. Though if your opinion of me was hurt by it, I _am _sorry for that."

"I could never hold one man's unsavory behavior against you."

"And my behavior? You can't deny that I have been less than welcoming to you. If you do deny it you'll only be insulting my intelligence."

Matthew couldn't help but smile. "In that case, I will accept an apology if one is offered, but will not demand one. Your resentment regarding our . . . _situation _is not unfounded."

Mary sighed. "I am sorry. If it makes you feel better, it was never about you. I resented Patrick for being heir just the same."

"Do you miss him?"

The question surprised Mary, but sensing nothing behind it but a sincere curiosity, she answered as honestly as she could. "I do," she said, adding with a smile, "insufferable though he could be."

Matthew smiled, warmly.

"And you?" She asked. "Do you miss _her_?"

Matthew nodded. "Some days more than others. It used to be painful—thinking of her. Now not so much."

"Do you think she would have liked it here?"

"I'm not sure. She lived in a part of my life that was so unlike how things are now that I sometimes have difficulty reconciling the two."

"But you don't regret coming here, doing your part to save the estate?" Mary asked tentatively.

He smiled. "No, I don't."

"Well, as disingenuous as it may sound now, given everything I've said before, I am glad you are here. You'll find I'm not the easiest person to convince about anything, but when I see good I come around."

Matthew said nothing in response, but merely looked at her with an expression Mary couldn't decipher. Feeling exhausted from the roller coaster of emotions she'd been through in the last twenty-four hours, she took a deep breath, and spoke again to excuse herself.

"I think I'll go back inside" she said. "I'm afraid I've used up my good graces for the day, such as they are this morning and I wouldn't want you to bore you with my continued company."

Matthew laughed. "Cousin Mary, even when you are unpleasant, you are never boring."

A sparkle came into Mary's eyes. "You flatter me Cousin Matthew," she said, turning to walk back inside.

**XXX**

"I was beginning to wonder if you'd decided to stay there for good!"

"Didn't Aunt Isobel tell you what happened? I thought Lord Grantham sent a message," Tom said coming into the kitchen at Crawley House, where his mother had been waiting in her Sunday best for the walk to church.

"She did," Claire said, standing. "I didn't realize it would take so long to get it all sorted out."

"Well, we're on our way now aren't we?" He said, smiling playfully.

Claire narrowed her eyes at him. "You're in a surprisingly good mood, given the day's events."

"I mean no disrespect to the dead, but yes, I am."

"Any particular reason?"

"Would you believe me if I said that proximity to death has inspired me to live life to the fullest?"

"No, I wouldn't" Claire said with a smile. "But I suppose you'll tell me the real reason when you're ready."

Tom laughed. "You know me too well, mam."


	19. Chapter 19

_Thanks so much, as always, for your comments and support._

_As was mentioned in the last chapter, there's a new footman coming so Alfred will be joining the staff earlier than the timeline of the show. He'll still be O'Brien's nephew, though he won't create the tension between O'Brien and Thomas that occurred on the show. _

_By tomorrow, I'll have a few notes on this chapter on my tumblr (magfreak tumblr com, with periods where the spaces are), for those who are interested. I'll be talking about further changes I'm making to the timeline of Gwen's story and the show's overall timeline and what's coming with romances between the downstairs set, among other things. Not necessary to read the chapter, but if you're interested in how I worked certain things out or why I'm taking the story in a particular direction, it will be there. _

* * *

**December 1912**

In the few weeks after Mr. Evelyn Napier and Mr. Kemal Pamuk's visit, as November gave way to December and Christmastide, spirits around Downton Abbey brightened. If the absence of James and Patrick on the first Christmas since they'd perished on the Titanic saddened anyone in the family, the presence of the new cousins helped soothe any lingering grief. The Reginald Crawley family, in turn, enjoyed their first holidays in Yorkshire thoroughly, never thinking of or missing, not even for a minute, the city they had left behind. Christmas Eve at Crawley House, in fact, was a more lively affair than normal on this year with the initiation of Moseley into the family's unorthodox celebration.

As Isobel explained to Moseley, Tom began to sleep in his own room next to Matthew's in the Manchester house the year they started school, primarily in an effort to help the nanny save time as she helped two unruly youngsters get ready every morning. But the move also cemented Tom's place in Reginald's heart as his second son, and on the first Christmas that followed, the man simply would not hear of sitting down to dinner without both of the boys he loved so dear. Isobel, not wanting to supplant Claire Branson completely in Tom's life, argued to her husband that the holidays were a time the boy should spend with her.

"Well, if Tommy must dine with his mother, then she shall have to dine with us," was Reginald's curt reply.

Isobel had been pleased by the compromise, but it posed a new problem. She didn't want to leave the maid alone in the servants' quarters on such an occasion or be seen as an ungenerous employer. And so the maid was invited as well. Thus, the tradition began. Over the years, the event became less of a formal dinner and more of an open house, with Reginald occasionally inviting associates and employees from his medical practice. It was always done on Christmas Eve to give guests and staff the opportunity for time off on Christmas Day if they so desired. Even as a young boy, Tom always understood the line that separated his mother from Isobel and Reginald, but those merry nights spent with everyone he knew and loved in one room were the happiest of his childhood and taught him early on how very artificial the separation of the classes truly was.

Many years later, at Crawley House, the prospect of sharing a holiday meal with his employer might have shocked a butler more intent on adhering to the proper rules of high society, but in the months he'd been in their employ, Moseley had come to embrace the Reginald Crawley family's progressive view of country life. Once his duties on behalf of the young gentlemen settled into a routine, he came to enjoy them highly, and despite Mrs. Branson and Ivy's own initial resistance to his presence, he had made himself essential to them as well, as they did their work around the house.

Moseley sometimes saw or met members of the staff from the big house around the village, but he spoke with them only rarely. Moseley knew that the earl and countess were not yet aware of Tom's parentage and that Isobel and Mrs. Branson didn't want to draw attention to that particular detail of Tom's life, lest it affect his prospects. But Moseley also had come to understand that the housekeeper and his mistress were not guarding a secret so much as they were protecting their own happy home from the intrusion of others. And now that he had been welcomed into their fold, he did not want to let any disturbance into their peaceful existence either.

Isobel considered carefully whether to mention Christmas Eve to Robert and Cora and offer an invitation, but ultimately she decided against it, wanting to keep things in the family at least this, their first year of what she'd come to call their adventure up north. Still, she could not refuse Robert and Cora's invitation to dine at Downton Abbey on Christmas Day, happily accepting on behalf of herself and her sons. And it was on that day that Isobel learned of the Robert Crawley family's own version of social "mixing," as Violet referred to it.

The annual servants ball would be held on New Year's Eve, and not only were Tom, Matthew and Isobel expected to attend, so too were the servant residents of Crawley House. When it was mentioned during dinner, Tom and Isobel quickly exchanged glances that promised a later conversation about what that would entail. But the conversation—when it happened the next day and during which Tom insisted he would not go and pretend Claire was anyone except his mother—was rendered moot when Claire fell ill with a cold a few days before the night of the ball. Tom might have thought it was her way of avoiding the whole question were it not for how well he knew his mother hated being laid up in bed sick.

So on the day before the ball, Tom and Matthew, off from work until after the new year, headed over to the big house to discuss several things with Robert, including an update on who'd be coming to the ball from Crawley House. William would also be meeting them there to give Robert an end of the year update on the estate.

It was the first time William would be returning to the house as something other than a footman.

**XXX**

As Tom and Matthew were making their way to the house, Sybil was sitting in her room tying a ribbon around the box in which she'd placed her Christmas gift for Tom. They had agreed to exchange gifts after Christmas and away from the scrutiny of their relatives, a measure that was probably unnecessary since they had also agreed to only buy one another books in order to, in Sybil's words, "keep things simple." Sybil had felt silly making that suggestion, but Tom understood her desire for their attachment to blossom naturally and not be hurried along by the definitions and trappings of conventional romance, at least as defined by Sybil's family. He also pointed out the very real possibility that they'd have given one another books as gifts anyway.

Their friendship had become something they both treasured and protected closely. And though that word—_romance_—hadn't entered into conversation or even been especially prominent in either one's thoughts, in their later years, both of them would see that this had been how it started.

Sybil had finished and was holding the box up to admire her handy work when there was a light knock on her door. She quickly stood to put the box in her wardrobe before saying, "Come in!"

It was Gwen, wearing a smile as big as Sybil had ever seen on her. She came into the room holding a letter in her hands. "This came today," she said handing the letter over to Sybil.

Sybil opened the letter and read it. She brightened as she came to understand its purpose: Gwen had been invited to interview for the secretarial position she'd inquired about in the fall.

"I knew they would want to see you!" Sybil said excitedly.

"Well, it's your reference what's done it," Gwen said, but her smiled turned to concern as she continued. "But how am I going to get to Thirsk? They won't let me take a day off."

It didn't take Sybil long to find a solution. "You're going to be ill," she said. "They can't stop you being ill."

"What?"

"What happens when someone upstairs catches cold?" Sybil asked rhetorically, holding her hands behind her.

"Mrs. Hughes sends them up to their room to sleep," Gwen said with a sheepish smile.

"So you'll fake sick, and we'll find a way to get there!"

"There is something else."

"What's that?" Sybil asked.

Gwen moved to sit on the bed. "I don't know if you're aware, but the new footman started today."

"Oh, I didn't know. What's his name?"

"Alfred Nugent. He's Miss O'Brien's nephew. He was in last week for an interview with Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes. Anna and I were outside his office waiting for Mrs. Hughes as they were interviewing him, and, well, it occurred to me . . . I've never really done that before, had an interview, that is."

"How did you get this job?"

"I started as a scullery maid when I was fifteen at a house run by a housekeeper who knew my mother as a child. She gave me the job to help my parents, and after a year, she recommended me for this one. There was no interview."

"Oh my," Sybil said, sitting next to Gwen.

"You see, milady, even if I make it to the location, I won't know what I'm doing."

"Oh, Gwen, don't lose heart when you're so close. You did very well on your course, which means you have the skills. You just have to learn how to present yourself well."

"Are you sure?"

"I am. Respond, and let them know you'll take the interview. Once it's scheduled, we'll figure out the best way to prepare."

Gwen smiled, reassured. "Thank you, milady. I couldn't have gotten this far without your help."

"We're not there yet, but I know you can do it."

Gwen stood up. "I best get back to work."

"Here," Sybil said, standing and handing back the letter. "Return it and we'll go from there."

Gwen smiled and turned to leave. She'd made it to the door when she turned back. "Everyone downstairs is quite looking forward to tomorrow."

"I'm looking forward to is as well," Sybil said with a smile.

"Do you think Mr. Branson and Mr. Crawley are good dancers?"

"I suppose we'll find out," Sybil responded.

Gwen stepped out without another word and smiled to herself about the slight blush she noticed on Sybil's cheeks when dancing and Mr. Branson had been mentioned in the same breath.

**XXX**

Downstairs in the parlor Violet and Cora were discussing, once again, Mary's prospects for marriage. After the failure with Napier, both had noticed that Mary's enthusiasm for accepting social invitations had waned. Cora couldn't also help but observe that Mary was no longer as tense nor as dissatisfied with life as she had been in the months immediately following first Patrick's death and later the announcement that Matthew would be coming to Yorkshire to take his place as heir.

This softening in her daughter's demeanor eased Cora's concerns about Mary's well being and made her wonder whether she'd been wrong to push Mary so hard when it came to making a match. Still, she wanted her daughter to be taken care of, so Cora submitted to Violet's insistence to get Mary settled as soon as possible.

"How about some house parties?" Violet asked, after the two had been quietly thinking about how to encourage Mary to be more social.

"She's been asked to one next month by Lady Ann McNair," Cora responded.

Violet's face wrinkled into a look of disapproval. "That's a terrible idea. She doesn't know anyone under a hundred."

"I might send her over to visit my aunt. She could get to know New York."

"Oh, I don't think things are quite that desperate. What do you think accounts for this sudden desire to be such a recluse?"

Cora laughed. "Oh, it's not quite so bad as you describe it. She was so often out and about after the loss of James and Patrick, when was it probably still too fresh. It obviously took a toll on her. I'm afraid we underestimated how much their deaths affected her. She seems more comfortable now than before. Maybe next season will be more fruitful."

"I hope you're right. Poor Mary. I do hope she's not given up."

"I wouldn't say she has, not yet."

"And what of Edith?" Violet asked with a sigh. "Her time looms of the horizon."

"She tried with Matthew, but there was no match to be made between him and her, either. He seems very much the determined bachelor, at least for the time being."

"Pity he came to us as a near-widower."

"He's a good man. He'll make a good choice when the time comes."

"At least Sybil still has a season here at home. To think of worrying of three at once!"

Cora laughed softly. "Perhaps we shouldn't worry about any of them at all. Let us wave our white flag of surrender and let nature and fate take their course."

Violet looked at Cora sternly. "Don't be defeatist, dear. It's very middle class."

**XXX**

As footman, William had opened the front door for the former estate agent, Jarvis, many times. And yet, as he approached Downton Abbey, he couldn't help but veer toward the service entrance that he had used so many times. He did so partly out of habit, partly out of a desire to see the friends he had not seen in quite some time and partly out of a need to prove to them that despite his new position, he did not see himself above their station—something he was afraid at least some among the staff might believe.

The yard outside the servants' hall was empty as he neared the door. He could only assume everyone was working on preparations for luncheon in a few hours. William took a deep breath as he put his hand on the door and opened it.

Indeed, there was a flurry of activity as the hall boys swept the area just outside the kitchen while the scullery maid was cleaning the serving dishes on the table. Mrs. Patmore came out of the kitchen to bark out an instruction at her, but it stayed lodged in her throat as she caught sight of William, who was standing just inside the door, now unsure as to whether he should have come in this way after all.

"Oh my God!" She exclaimed, bringing her hands to her mouth. "Look at the proper gent that's just walked in!"

She walked toward him with a proud smile. Mrs. Hughes came into the room and on seeing William also beamed at how well he looked.

"How nice that you've come to see us, William," Mrs. Hughes said. "Are you here to meet with his lordship and Mr. Crawley and Mr. Branson?"

"I am," he said sheepishly. "Just thought I'd pop by and see how you all were first."

"You're looking very fine," Mrs. Hughes said. "Your new position suits you."

"I'm not sure how suited I am for it, but I'm learning."

"Oh, nonsense," Mrs. Patmore cut in. "The young gentlemen would not have hired you if they'd not found you up to the job."

Just then, Daisy walked in and for the first time since he'd come in William allowed himself a full smile.

"William!" She said, eyes wide at the changes in him. "I can't believe it's you."

"Now, Daisy, he's estate agent now, so he's Mr. Mason," Mrs. Hughes said.

"Don't fret about that, Mrs. Hughes," William said. "I reckon I'll always be William to my friends."

"Well, get going you," Mrs. Patmore said, pushing William along. "Don't go and keep them waiting or you'll find yourself down here again with us."

William smiled. "That wouldn't be so bad, Mrs. Patmore."

"Don't tempt fate, boy," Mrs. Patmore responded with alarm. "You've made something of yourself and made us proud. Does no good to look back."

"Well, then," William said quietly, giving the women a hesitant, nervous bow and headed toward the stairs.

"Will you be coming to the servants ball tomorrow?" Daisy called out quickly.

William brightened again. "Yes, I will be."

**XXX**

"I must admit, he does have a good handle on things," Robert said to Matthew and Tom after their meeting with William had concluded and he had gone.

"I know you can't help but think of him as a footman," Matthew said, "but remember that in the year you were away from Downton, he was here, working the land."

"And we couldn't have found someone better acquainted with the rest of the tenants," Tom added.

"Well, he's young and will be in place for some time, so we'll have some continuity. I hate the bother of finding new employees."

"What other post do you have to look to?" Matthew asked. "I thought the second footman had been hired."

"Oh yes, he began this week as I understand," Robert replied. "No, this has to do with mama. Her chauffer Taylor is taking his retirement."

"What are his plans?" Matthew asked.

"Apparently, he wants to run a tea shop," Robert answered. "I cannot feel it will make for a very restful retirement, can you, Carson? You're about Taylor's age."

The three men looked to the butler, who was standing at attention at the door. "I would rather be put to death, my lord."

"Quite so," Robert said, raising his eyebrows at Carson's candid response.

Tom laughed. "Your willingness not to mince words is to be admired, Carson." Turning back to Robert, he added, "I imagine Cousin Violet doesn't take easily to such changes."

Robert rolled his eyes. "I can't say as she does, and it's up to me to bother with finding a new man."

"If you'd like, I'd be happy to take on the search, Robert."

"Would you mind terribly? You'd be ridding me of quite a burden. I doubt mama will second-guess your choice so much as she would mine. I'll tell Carson to send you the replies to our inquiry."

Tom nodded, and just as he did Sybil came into the library.

Matthew and Tom, who'd been sitting on the sofa, stood as she said brightly, "Good morning, everyone."

"Sybil, I thought you'd gone into Ripon with Mary and Edith," Robert said.

"They were going to the dressmaker for fittings, and that always takes such a dreadfully long time," she said. Looking around to all of them she added drily, "Not that any of you would know anything about that."

Tom snickered in response.

"Did you need something?" Robert asked.

"I was just coming to fetch a book, but I can come back if you're busy," Sybil said.

"Actually, I think we've wrapped everything up, haven't we?" Matthew asked. "I need to be going in any case, I told mother I'd go with her to the hospital this afternoon and I'd like to see to some things at home before luncheon."

"I take it she is enjoying her role as board president?" Robert asked.

Matthew smiled, "Very much, perhaps more than Dr. Clarkson is enjoying it."

Robert smiled. "Well, we'll see you tomorrow, then?"

"Yes," Matthew said and with a quick bow turned and was gone.

Sitting back down at his desk, Robert said, "Sybil, mama is in the parlor, if you see her will you let her know Tom will be taking care of the interviews for her new chauffer?"

"You are?" Sybil said turning to Tom, an idea quickly churning in her mind.

Tom smiled and nodded.

"Would you do me a great favor?" Sybil asked excitedly. "Well, not me, but Gwen?"

"You're not riling her up again to leave us are you?" Robert asked.

"Papa! You're so unforgiving! She has an interview for a secretarial post, but she needs to prepare. If Tom could help, I'm certain she would be offered the job."

"I don't mind doing it, Robert, if that's your concern," Tom said.

Robert smiled indulgently at the pair of rabble-rousers and stood. "Fine, then, but do see that she doesn't neglect her _current _work."

"Thank you, papa."

Robert headed to the door, and stopped at the door to address Carson. "I'm going to rest for a bit before luncheon. Please have Bates come up before it's served."

With that Robert left, Carson leaving behind him to deliver the message.

Sybil and Tom smiled at one another. She came over to the sofa and they both sat.

"Thank you for agreeing," Sybil said. "She's not done a proper interview before."

"I'm happy to help. Ask when she's next off and we'll spend an afternoon on it."

"I do hope she can find a job. Will it be possible, do you think?"

Tom smiled. "With you as her champion, I don't see how she can fail."

"I'm afraid you give me too much credit, but I'll accept the compliment just the same."

"Well, I should head back as well," he said, standing. "Before I left, mam was preparing a list of tasks she wanted me to do for her."

"Do you have to go so soon?" Sybil asked, also getting to her feet. "I ask because I wonder if I could give you your Christmas present now?"

"Certainly," Tom said. "Actually, I have yours as well."

Sybil looked around where he'd been sitting. "Where?" She asked confused.

Tom laughed and walked over to one of the shelves, stuck his hand behind a row of books and pulled out a parcel—larger than her present to him, Sybil noticed immediately.

"That looks suspiciously like more than one. I thought we agreed to—"

"It's one book, I assure you."

Sybil narrowed her eyes at him playfully. "All right. I'll go fetch yours."

"I'll wait here."

Sybil turned to go, then immediately turned around again.

"Was it very cold outside when you walked here?"

"Not particularly. Why?"

"If you walk on the path to the village, just before the gate, there's another that breaks off toward the creek. We could meet there, by the banks."

"OK. I'll set off then," he said and moved to leave.

After he'd gone, Sybil ran up to her room for her coat and hat and the box she'd wrapped that morning. Seeing her mother in the hall as she headed out, Sybil called out to her, "It's terribly nice out, mama, I'm going for a walk," without stopping, in an effort to head off any questions.

Cora watched her go out and furrowed her brow for a moment but then shrugged and continued on her way without another thought.

Sybil made the walk as quickly as her feet would take her, slowing down only at the sight of him taking off his coat and hat and setting them on a rock just off the bank of the creek.

"Hi," she said quietly as she approached, now a bit nervous about having suggested what now seemed a rather intimate rendezvous.

He smiled and pointed to the rock, where he'd draped his coat, meaning for her to sit.

"Won't you be cold?"

"It's actually rather mild out for a December morning."

Sybil sat down and took her hat off, setting it next to his.

Once she was settled, he offered her the parcel. Sybil set his present down by her feet and set to opening hers, quickly tearing through the wrapping. Lifting the top of the box, she saw a stack of eight thin books.

She glanced at him through the sides of her eyes, smiling, as she placed the box on her lap and picked up the first. "You said it was just one."

"It is, technically" he responded, a serene smile on his face.

Sybil opened the small volume to the first page of text.

_Miss Brooke had that kind of beauty which seems to be thrown into relief by poor dress._

She recognized it immediately.

"Tom! This is—"

"Middlemarch," he said, his expression now turning into a grin. "In its original serialized form. Eight volumes in all."

"But this is my . . . "

"Favorite book. I know."

Sybil looked at him in awe, trying to contain the feeling of butterflies flying around in her chest. "How did you figure it out?"

"The copy in the library at Downton Place had a very worn spine, so I recognized it easily when I saw it in the library here. I assumed it must mean a lot to a member of the family if he or she bothered to bring such an old copy back. Given the story, that could only have been you."

Sybil smiled, still feeling slightly overwhelmed. "Deductive reasoning, just like Sherlock Holmes."

Tom cheeks reddened a bit in embarrassment. "It was just a guess."

Sybil hugged the eight small volumes to her chest and took a deep breath. Upon exhaling she looked back up at him and a small tear escaped the side of her eye. He stepped forward and wiped it from her cheek gently with his index finger.

"They are meant to make you happy," he said quietly.

"They do."

Sybil put the books back in their box, picked up his gift and handed it over to him. "I admit here and now that this will not measure up."

He smiled as he unwrapped it. "I'll be the judge of that."

Tom opened the box and pulled out a small, leather bound book with no writing on the cover. Sybil watched him closely as he opened it and leafed through the pages. Stopping in the middle to read, he smiled.

"This is Katherine Tynan's poetry."

Sybil nodded. "It's a collection curated by Yeats. They are translated into Irish in the back."

Tom flipped forward and his smile grew wider. He looked up at her and the spark in his eye made her feel proud of herself.

"Will you read one?" She asked.

"Now?"

"When else?"

He laughed and paged through the book to pick one at random.

_The Only Child  
__Lest he miss other children, lo!  
__His angel is his playfellow.  
__A riotous angel two years old,  
__With wings of rose and curls of gold._

_There on the nursery floor together  
__They play when it is rainy weather,  
__Building brick castles with much pain,  
__Only to knock them down again._

_Two golden heads together look  
__An hour long o'er a picture-book,  
__Or, tired of being good and still,  
__They play at horses with good will._

_And when the boy laughs you shall hear  
__Another laughter silver-clear,  
__Sweeter than music of the skies,  
__Or harps, or birds of Paradise._

_Two golden heads one pillow press,  
__Two rosebuds shut for heaviness.  
__The wings of one are round the other  
__Lest chill befall his tender brother._

_All day, with forethought mild and grave,  
__The little angel's quick to save.  
__And still outruns with tender haste  
__The adventurous feet that go too fast.__  
_

_From draughts, from fire, from cold and stings  
__Wraps him within his gauzy wings;  
__And knows his father's pride, and shares  
__His happy mother's tears and prayers._

After he finished, Sybil said quietly, "That was lovely."

Without looking up he flipped through the book again. Then, he handed it to Sybil. "Now you."

She smiled taking it from him. She was about to start when she stopped herself and bit her lip.

"Is there something wrong?" He asked.

"Do you suppose this is all a bit too romantic? You know, for two _friends_?"

Tom laughed, then straightened his face into an overly serious expression. "I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about. Matthew and I recite poetry to one another all the time."

Sybil let out a hearty laugh, releasing all the pressure and nervousness she was feeling. She cleared her throat loudly, making him laugh, and began to read.

And so they sat until they'd gone through almost the entire book.

Yes, it was romantic, but what did that matter when it was so much fun.


	20. Chapter 20

_Thank you, everyone, as always, for reading, reviewing, following and favoriting!_

_This chapter is the servants' ball and will bring in a bit more of the episode four dialogue and one snippet, between Carson and Mary, from episode three. Trying to write scenes within an event where there are so many people around is a bit of a challenge. I've basically distilled the night into a series of vignettes. I hope it's not too disjointed. _

_If you're interested in some notes on the chapter on Daisy and William, Edith and Mary's evolving attitudes, and the _very _slow burn of Tom and Sybil in this story, visit my tumblr page (magfreak tumblr com, with periods where the spaces are). The notes will likely be up by tomorrow._

_Hope you enjoy! _

* * *

"Are you sure you don't want someone to stay with you?" Tom asked his bedridden mother for what seemed to her like the tenth time in the last five minutes.

"For the last time," Claire said, stopping for a moment to blow her nose before continuing, "Ivy's made me some tea. I'm going to drink it and go to sleep. I won't have you stay and miss the fun, and I won't have you make Ivy stay when she's been counting the minutes to this blessed affair for days."

Tom smiled. "Fine, but if you think you're getting out of it next year—"

"I know, I know," Claire said. "You'll make me go even if it means tying me to the top of the motor. Now be off with you!"

Tom stood from where he was sitting on the bed and kissed the top of his mother's head. "Happy New Year, mam."

"Happy New Year, my Tommy," she said holding on to his hand. "May it bring you all the happiness in the world."

Tom squeezed her hand and took his leave. He turned to her once more when he got to the door and laughed as she waved him off with an exasperated look.

After leaving his mother's room, Tom made his way through the house and out to the front yard, where everyone—Matthew, Isobel, Moseley and Ivy—was waiting for Pratt.

"Now, Ivy, Moseley tells me that this will be your first ball?" Isobel asked the young maid, as Tom approached.

"Oh, yes, mum," Ivy responded, the excitement visible in her eyes. "My parents wouldn't let me go to dances back home in Manchester. The closest I've come was dancing at my brother's wedding when I was sixteen, three years ago now."

"It's certainly nice of the Crawleys to hold such an event," Isobel said. "I don't suppose the young people working at Downton have much chance to get out and enjoy themselves."

"I shouldn't think so, mum" Moseley said in response.

"Here comes Pratt now," Matthew said as the motor could be seen in the distance. Turning back to the group gathered, he asked, "Are we all going to fit?"

"Someone will have to ride with Pratt up front," Tom said, "but it should be just enough space."

As soon as the chauffer pulled up to Crawley House, the party boarded the automobile, with Moseley taking the space next to Pratt, Tom and Matthew the rear-facing seat directly behind them and Isobel and Ivy the seat in the back. Once everyone was settled in, Pratt set off back toward the big house. Moseley having been sent on the occasional errand to Downton Abbey, Ivy was the only one among the group who had never seen the house before. It was not nearly so impressive when approached at a time of night that allowed darkness to obscure its size, but nevertheless, she let out an audible gasp when she caught sight of it.

"Don't be intimidated, my dear," Isobel said, leaning into her with a smile. "You're just as good as the young women who work here—better, even, seeing as you have to manage you know who's moods on your own."

Ivy laughed for a moment, but then her brow furrowed. "What if someone asks about her?" She asked quietly, nodding her head toward Tom, who was talking with Matthew.

"Mrs. _Connelly _is ill," Isobel whispered, not wanting to get Tom stirred up about the subject. "But I doubt anyone will—certainly not after they see you in your lovely holiday frock."

Ivy smiled, grateful for the encouragement.

The motor made its way up the driveway, and Pratt, ever mindful of protocol, stopped first at the front door to drop off Isobel, Matthew and Tom. He asked the servants to remain with him so they could make the much shorter walk from the garage to the service entrance, rather than have to go all the way around the house on foot. Once the car was parked appropriately, Pratt excused himself and headed to his cottage to change out of his livery and into a suit for the ball, and Ivy and Moseley headed up to the entrance.

When they had made it to the door, Moseley turned to Ivy with a smile. "Ready?"

"As ever," she answered quietly

He opened the door and peaked his head in. He motioned for her to follow him into the servants' hall where about two dozen of the staff had gathered and were milling about and chatting eagerly. The loud din in the room immediately ceased as everyone turned to see the new arrivals.

"Good evening to you all. I've met some of you, but I'll introduce myself formally. I'm Joseph Moseley, Crawley House butler and valet to Misters Crawley and Branson. This is our housemaid Ivy Smith."

Mrs. Hughes stepped forward. "Thank you, Mr. Moseley. It's nice to see you again. We'll be going up shortly. You may leave your coats by the door there."

Moseley took Ivy's coat and hat, then removed his own and hung it on the hook Mrs. Hughes had pointed to. Just as he'd done that, Carson came down the staircase and announced, "The ballroom is ready."

The crowd shifted to start moving forward but was stopped by Carson's voice again.

"And may I remind everyone to behave with the dignity and honor that the house deserves. His lordship has been kind enough to invite us to enjoy ourselves with the family tonight. Let us not repay his generosity with drunken buffoonery."

There was a murmur of giggles among the crowd. Ivy looked around to see if she could spot anyone that might not meet Mr. Carson's unyieldingly high expectations. Doing so, she noticed the estate agent, Mr. Mason, who had come to dinner at Crawley House several times in the last few months. He was speaking to a small, brown-haired girl, who didn't look much older than Ivy was. As they were all out of livery, Ivy could not guess as to anyone's position on the staff. The crowd slowly began filing up the stairs, and Ivy caught the eye of a tall, red haired young man, who smiled at her. She looked away immediately to hide the slight blush rising in her cheeks. After a moment, Moseley signaled for her to step ahead of him, and as she did so, she felt someone at her elbow.

It was Anna, who offered kindly, "Welcome to Downton Abbey."

**XXX**

Upstairs, Matthew, Isobel and Tom, upon entering the house, had proceeded to the parlor, where they found Cora, Edith, Violet and Sybil. The four had been chatting after dinner, which had been a simple affair served in the small dining room so the family could help themselves, as they would with breakfast, while the staff prepared for the festivities. Robert, who always liked the family to enter the ball together, had gone off in search of Mary.

It was a reality that, for months, Robert had not wanted to address, but things had been cool between him and his eldest daughter since the loss of Downton the previous year. The death of his heir and the arrival of Matthew had not helped matters. Violet and Cora had wanted him to fight the expressed wishes of his father in an effort—a futile one really, given how little money there was left—to make Mary an heiress and improve her chances of a good marriage. But Robert could not turn his back on his legacy, not when he'd been such a poor steward of it to begin with. Given all of that, Robert understood Mary's attitude at first. But now that they were back at Downton, he was confident in Matthew and Tom's work to reinvigorate the estate and village and felt good about the future. And for the first time in more than a year, he believed that whatever 1913 would bring, there would be happiness in which he could share with the daughter he knew he'd become a disappointment to.

Mary had been standing at the windows of the library since shortly after dinner. With the Pamuk affair behind her and any thought of marriage pushed aside for the time being, she'd been in a bright mood through most of the holidays. But this day was different. For the first time since she could remember, Mary couldn't anticipate what a new year would hold for her. So rather than face down the unknown, Mary allowed herself to indulge in a bit of nostalgia, even while chastising herself for the rank sentimentality of it all. Thinking back to when she was a child, Mary remembered how much she had loved New Year's Eve and the servants' ball. Starting at eight years of age, her parents had allowed her to stay up and share one dance with Carson, during which the butler indulged his favorite girl as she would tell him all her plans for the new year. It was a tradition that continued until age fourteen, when Mary received her first invitation to a country ball. The ball was at the home of friends of the family, and though she was still not out, she barely sat down all night.

The experience awoke Mary to the attention of her peers, of the people in society who crowned beautiful girls like her with their praise, of those who wore titles grander than hers, and of those who whispered in her ear about the marvelous summer four years hence when she would bow before their majesties and be feted by London society for the first time. Suddenly, her chatty dances with the butler seemed inconsequential and meaningless, and though Mary continued to attend the servants' ball, she no longer danced with anyone but her father. Carson, always the consummate professional, never let on if his feelings were hurt, and the truth was that they weren't. He understood that Mary was learning her place in society. If anything, he took pride in her ascendance in the opinion of those whose opinions mattered.

In time, though, Mary came to miss dancing with him. She had now spent four seasons among London society, and she'd learned in that time that opinions are fickle, especially among those who have little better to do than gossip about the marriageability of certain young ladies. She remained as popular as ever, but only superficially so. Her circumstances had changed and so, it seemed, had the proverbial tide of good favor. It had taken losing a fortune that had never been truly hers for Mary to understand that despite her beauty, despite whatever attributes others might consider of the highest importance, nothing mattered like money in the search for a husband. And money was the one thing that she couldn't talk about. That knowledge coupled with her acknowledgement as to her heart's trepidation about being married made Mary more at peace about the current state of things and about her decision to stop worrying about finding a husband, but it didn't offer any insight as to what would happen the following season. She would never show it, but it scared Mary that she could no longer be sure life would turn out exactly as she expected.

These were the thoughts her mind had landed on when Robert found her.

"Here you are," he said quietly as he approached and leaned at the edge of the window next to where she was looking out into the dark.

"Here I am."

"The servants should be up by now. We should go in and start the festivities."

"Have Matthew, Isobel and Tom arrived?"

"Only just. They were coming into the parlor as I came to look for you."

"I wonder if they ever thought this is where they would be at the end of the year when it started."

"Is this where you thought _you_ would be?" Robert asked carefully.

Mary looked over at her father from the sides of her eyes.

"I suppose that was a silly question," he conceded with a smile.

"I wouldn't have thought two months ago this is where I would be, let alone twelve."

"Are you happy, my dear? I know I've put you through so much, but I do want nothing more than for you to be happy—you and Edith and Sybil."

"The definition of what happy is keeps changing," Mary said. "For now, I would be glad if things would simply settle into a routine once again."

"I believe they will."

Mary turned to face her father. "You're very happy with Matthew here, aren't you?"

"I am," Robert said. "Him and Tom both."

Mary thought of Sybil at the mention of Tom and couldn't keep her lips from turning into a slight smile thinking about what her father would think of the young man if Robert knew of the feelings Tom inspired in his youngest daughter.

"No sense in keeping everyone waiting," Mary said turning to go.

"Mary?"

She turned to see an anxious look on her father's face.

"Do you believe my affection for Matthew and Tom is an unfavorable reflection on you?" He asked.

She looked down at her hands. "They are the sons you always wanted."

"But you are my daughter," he said taking a step toward her. "You are my darling daughter, and I love you, hard as it is for an Englishman to say the words."

"And yet as the entail was being sorted out, while mama and granny looked to my interests, the only one who never stuck up for me in all of it was you. Why?"

Robert closed the rest of the distance between them and took one of her hands in his. "If I had made my own fortune and bought Downton for myself, it should be yours without question. But I did not. My fortune was the work of others who labored to build a great dynasty. I was a custodian, my dear, never an owner. I did not have the right to destroy their work or impoverish that dynasty, and in my carelessness that is precisely what I did. I was not worthy of nor up to the task I was set. Taking Matthew's inherited fortune to save Downton and giving him the reins was all I could do to ensure the seat would live on. Having failed the past so miserably, I could not abandon the future."

Mary pulled her hand away and turned back to the window. "So I'm just to find a husband and get out of the way?"

"I know you believe that I _chose_ to give Downton to Matthew instead of you, and that if I'd not done so, by marrying someone of means you might have saved it on your own, but my hands were tied. And even if the impossible had been made possible and the entail broken, well . . . you don't understand the state things were in. Your mother's fortune was all but gone. The resolution of the entail in your favor would have only put more pressure on you regarding a match and ultimately might have placed in your hands the very difficult decision to sell this house I know you treasure as I do. I sought to protect you from that disappointment. It was my prerogative as a father. Perhaps in time you will understand it."

Mary looked at her father again, tears welling in her eyes. "I understand now, I just . . . I love this house so much, and happy as I am to be back here, I sometimes wish I hadn't had to return knowing that I must leave again."

"You could stay here if you married Matthew."

"You know my character, father. I'd never marry any man that I was told to. I'm stubborn. I wish I wasn't, but I am." She let our a mirthless laugh, adding, "Besides, you don't know whether Matthew would have me, and I won't have him suffer the indignity of you pushing him into it."

"Then I shall try to make these years here happy for you, for all of us, but you must try as well."

Mary sighed and smiled, a bit sadly. "I will."

Robert offered his arm to his daughter, and she took it. Together they walked to join the rest of the family so the ball could finally begin.

**XXX**

In keeping with tradition, which reserved the first dance, always a waltz, for the earl to dance with the housekeeper of the house and the countess with the butler, Robert and Mrs. Hughes along with Cora and Carson officially launched the evening into motion. When their dance finished, the floor was open. Upon arrival, Tom and Matthew had been warned by Cora that, given the numbers by which the women of the house outnumbered the men, they would be expected to take few rests throughout the night. So the two wasted no time in getting into the spirit of things.

Matthew, on Cora's request, invited Miss O'Brien to the dance floor. Tom intended to ask Ivy to dance, but as he approached her, he saw that she had been spoken for. Alfred, the new footman, guided her to the dance floor by the hand, and Ivy could only shrug her shoulders at Tom in delighted bewilderment. He smiled, happy to see her enjoying herself. Tom walked to where Sybil was, but where he'd expected an eager partner, Sybil took his arm only in order to escort him back around the room.

"We can't dance with the night still so young! Don't you understand, Tom, that the very best part of dancing is the anticipation?" She asked him playfully.

Tom looked at her with a furrowed brow. "You've not had very good partners, if that's what you think," was his wry reply.

Sybil rolled her eyes at him, grinning all the while as she led him to Gwen. After officially introducing her two best friends to one another, Sybil watched with a smile as Tom led Gwen around the floor. He did look terribly handsome this evening. If she'd turned down his invitation to dance, it was only because she knew she'd not want to let him go once they started. The sight of him and Gwen interacting in such an informal manner made Sybil long for the time when Gwen would no longer be in her parents' employ and when Gwen might finally be convinced to do away with the formalities between them so they could be friends and nothing else.

Gwen had grown more nervous about her job prospects upon hearing from Sybil first that Tom would be helping her prepare and second that because Sybil had spoken with Tom about it in Carson's presence, Gwen could not fake sick to attend the interview. Carson would see to it that she be given the appropriate time off, but that knowledge only served to worry Gwen regarding what the other maids—and Mr. Carson himself and Mrs. Hughes—might think of her desire to leave.

She explained as much to Tom as they danced, after he mentioned how much he was looking forward to supporting her in her effort to rise above her station.

"Has anyone said or done something to make life more difficult for you?" He asked.

"No, not specifically," Gwen said. "I just worry that's all."

"Well, don't," he said with a smile. "I understand you don't want to find yourself with no job at all, but don't bother too much with what others think. You've already done the hard part, and that's learning something new."

"But what if I try and I don't get the job?" she asked anxiously.

"Well, then you'll still have your job here, which is exactly where you'll be if you don't try at all. So you've lost nothing."

"Except a bit of pride," she said ruefully.

Tom grinned. "You'll find as you get older, Miss Dawson, that pride gets stronger the more knocks it takes. The most painful one's the first."

Gwen laughed and thought about how often Sybil had told her of his irrepressible confidence. Indeed, it was quite contagious.

Gwen didn't ever give herself much room to dream, but that night—the dancing, the punch, the joy of being with those she'd come to see as her family away from home—conspired against her and later, when she went to bed, she did do so thinking about what her life might be like many years hence, when she was an established middle class woman with a good job and when she would be proud to have her friends Sybil and Tom to tea as often as she wanted.

**XXX**

For his second visit to Downton Abbey in as many days, William, once again, had come into the house through the service entrance. He'd wondered whether he was disrespecting the family by doing so, but ultimately, he settled on the fact that he was an employee still. And anyway, he wanted to break the ice with his former colleagues before the ball began. He was happily welcomed by them all, with the exception of Thomas and Miss O'Brien, of course, but they did not ever happily welcome anyone or anything.

Daisy, the one whom William was only too willing to admit was the most dear to his heart, seemed happy to see him, just as she'd done the day before. She and everyone else who'd known him before surrounded him upon arrival and asked all sorts of questions about his work as agent for the estate. The attention was a bit startling for someone who'd once been trained to fade into the background, and as they moved up the stairs into the ballroom, frustratingly, it kept William from stepping away from the conversation and casually asking Daisy to dance.

After the fourth of fifth number, there was finally a lull in the conversation, and the group that had surrounded him, began to dwindle. In fact, only Mrs. Hughes and Mr. Bates remained.

Feeling a bit nervous, William turned to Mr. Bates, who had always been a supportive caring friend. "Is Daisy going to dance tonight, do you think?"

Bates smiled. "Why don't you ask her? She should enjoy herself with how hard Mrs. Patmore is on her all the time."

Thomas walked by at that moment, and exchanged looks with Mr. Bates. There had never been much love lost between the two, and William could see that even a year later that remained the case.

"What's it to you?" Bates asked Thomas, whose face was pulled into its usual grim expression.

"Nothing," he said with a half-hearted shrug.

Daisy had gone over with Anna to talk with Ivy. Seeing her come back toward the group, William summoned his courage. "Daisy, I was hoping that—"

"Would you like to dance with me, Daisy?" Thomas asked, cutting in and smiling as pleasantly as he could manage.

"Do you mean it?" Daisy asked wide-eyed.

Thomas held out his arm, and the young kitchen maid took it and followed him onto the dance floor.

Bates rolled his eyes. "Bastard."

"Don't fret, Mr. Bates," William said. "I'm not much of a dancer anyway."

Trying to retain his dignity, William excused himself and walked over to the table where the punch and biscuits were. He served himself a cup and was about to take a drink, when he saw Mrs. Hughes behind him. He offered her the cup and she took it with a small smile. William poured another and seeing her raise her glass to him, clinked hers with his and took a sip.

"You mustn't let Thomas get you down," she said quietly. "He's just jealous. Just look at how far you've come."

"It isn't very far, really, and what good is it when I can help but keep looking back."

Mrs. Hughes followed his line of sight to where Thomas was dancing with a grinning Daisy.

"She's a foolish girl, and she doesn't deserve you," Mrs. Hughes said, taking another sip of punch. "Though, why am I encouraging you? Forget all that for ten years at least."

"Ten years?"

"How old are you, William?"

"I'll be twenty-two this coming year."

"Do you know that some men wait until they're twice that to even consider marriage? You're young and you have many good years left in you—more, now that you've got a good job and benefactors like Mr. Crawley and Mr. Branson, who will look our for your interests and value your hard work. Do yourself a favor and focus on the opportunity they've given you. Make the most of it, and one day when you're standing in front of _her_ or whatever girl is on your mind just then, you'll have something to offer beyond an invitation to dance. If she's smart she'll see that what's in your heart is worth more than Thomas's nice looks."

William couldn't help but smile. "You're a kind woman, Mrs. Hughes. I don't know how this house would run without you. I don't, truly."

She lifted up her glass to him again, but instead of clinking it, he took it from her and put it down on the table along with his. Then, he offered his hand and nodded toward the dancers.

"What do you say?" William asked, his expression brightening.

"Rascal," Mrs. Hughes said shaking her head, but taking his hand and letting him lead her out anyway.

**XXX**

After Miss O'Brien, Matthew had taken a turn with Anna, then Cora, then Mrs. Patmore, then Ivy, then his mother. He very much needed a break, but as he walked over to the punch with his mother, he saw Edith holding a cup and looking at him eagerly.

His shoulders drooped a bit and he laughed softly. "Surely, you've seen how hard I've been working and are willing to give me a rest before I have to start again."

Edith crinkled her brow. "It figures that I'm the first you will say no to," she said, but he could hear in her tone that she was teasing him. "Here," she said, handing him the cup.

"Thank you," he said, smiling. "You could always ask one of the hall boys to dance with you."

Edith rolled her eyes. "I'm awkward enough without having to dance with boys who are shorter than me."

"So it's all about you, then?"

"Isn't dancing always about the woman?"

"I suppose you're right, though I'd be happy to let you take the lead if you'd like and make it all about me."

Edith considered his words. "Perhaps that's my problem with gentlemen."

"What's that?"

"I would _very much_ like to lead, but how many would allow for that. As many as would allow their wives to drive, and _that_, I dare say, is not a large number."

"We all need our ways of narrowing down our options, as it were. The man who truly enjoys being driven around by a woman is the man for you."

"I'm afraid men do the narrowing themselves by looking at me."

Matthew scoffed. "What did I say about listening to other people?"

Edith shrugged sheepishly. "You said not to."

"Well, then."

"I've always found the prospect of a new year frightening, so I'm reverting to my old self. It's a self-preservational instinct. No getting my hopes up about what's to come."

Matthew took one last pull of the punch Edith had poured for him and set the cup down. He extended his hand to her, and smiling, she placed hers in his. "You yourself said life would be different with brothers," he said as they walked to the dance floor. "Here I am. There is Tom, God help us,"—Matthew pointed to where Tom was pulling Violet, exasperated, but clearly enjoying herself, in circles—"and here is a new year to test the theory."

"Do you really think it will be?" Edith asked, shyly. "Different, I mean? And better?"

"I'm sure of it," Matthew said, twirling Edith playfully and making her laugh in the process.

1913 was not quite here and already Edith was having more fun than she'd imagined.

Mary watched a bit wistfully as Matthew and Edith danced. She and Matthew had come to something of a truce, but she had not yet achieved the level of comfort with him that Edith obviously had. It was intriguing to Mary how Matthew could be so good at putting people at ease around him, how she could pride herself at being at in control in every situation, and yet between them things remained stilted and unresolved. They were kind to one another, but Mary couldn't help but think that there was something missing. She was about to turn away, unable to keep watching them, when Sybil came up behind her.

"You've not done much dancing," Sybil said.

"Neither have you," Mary said, smiling. "Not with the one I'd have expected you to stick with all night."

Sybil blushed. "Why would I want to dance with Tom when I can watch him leaping about with granny?"

Both sisters turned to watch them. "Poor granny," Mary said trying to hold back her laughter.

"How do you suppose he lured her out there? Normally, she only likes to waltz."

"The redowa is very like the waltz," Mary answered. "I'm sure he downplayed the ways in which it isn't."

Sybil giggled as they continued to watch. At one point, Tom looked up past Violet and locked eyes with Sybil for a moment, causing him to trip slightly. He caught himself, but Violet pursed her lips at him. "Tom, it won't do if neither dancer knows what they are doing."

"Pardon me, Cousin Violet," he said. "I know I'm supposed to lead, but months of deferring to you has inoculated me against it. I dare say your husband was quite a man to keep up with you."

"He'd have a mouthful to say to you, no doubt."

"Any of it positive?"

"Very little, but I imagine you'd have won him over eventually."

"You think so?" He asked, genuinely curious.

"You've convinced _me _there's some good in you behind the revolutionary nonsense, and I'm more discriminating than he was."

Tom's expression softened. Violet lifted her eyes to him and her focused gaze made Tom think she was looking through him, past the wit and charm, and into the heart of who he really was.

"I do believe where a person comes from matters, Tom," she said finally, "But not in the way that you think I do."

The music stopped. Tom turned to offer his arm to Violet to walk her back to the chair from whence he'd taken her. Her words had thrown him for a bit of a loop, and he wondered whether in some word or action he'd revealed the part of himself that Isobel had been so anxious for him to keep hidden. He had always assumed that when that truth finally made itself known, Violet would be the first to reject him. As he walked with her on his arm, he realized that despite his familial and patriotic pride, acceptance from her, of all people, had come to mean a great deal to him. He wasn't sure what she'd meant by what she'd said exactly. He could only hope.

Mary and Sybil walked over to where they were as Violet sat down next to Cora.

"I think that's my best for the evening," Violet said, taking a sip of the cordial she'd left on the small table next to her chair.

"You're still putting all of us to shame, granny," Sybil said, holding back a grin.

"I dare say if you came to London this season, none of us would stand a chance," Mary added.

Violet gave Mary a skeptical look. "These modern dances are really far too jumpy."

"You did just fine," Tom said, smiling. He looked over at Sybil and raised his eyebrows in question, wondering just how long she would insist on putting him off.

"What do you think, mama?" Sybil asked, addressing her mother, but looking straight at Tom as if the question itself was her answer to him. He couldn't help but smile as he rolled his eyes at her.

"I think they look rather fun," Cora replied.

"Your American constitution makes you better suited for them, I suppose," Violet added.

Taking that as his cue, Tom put his hand out to Cora, "What do you say, Cousin Cora, shall we show these English ladies how it's done."

Cora smiled and took his hand. "I shouldn't steal you from the younger girls, but just one won't hurt."

Sybil and Mary laughed, watching them go.

**XXX**

Sybil having gone over to Gwen to chat, Mary meandered around the room, watching everyone enjoy themselves. Eventually, her eyes landed on Carson who was standing on the far edge of the dance floor, as if presiding over the festivities, proud of his staff and his family. Mary smiled and walked over to him.

"I know it's been some time Carson, but I wonder if you might do me the honor," she said, coming up behind him.

Her words startled him, but he didn't miss a beat. "The honor is entirely mine, milady."

He offered his arm and walked her to the center of the floor.

"I've missed these dances with you, you know," she said as they fell into step.

"Nonsense, milady, you've much better partners at your disposal, and much better born."

"I'm afraid I've come to find that birth is but an imperfect measure of a man's character," Mary said. "Action defines character, and true gentlemen, as we call them, do nothing at all while we ladies must stand aside and hope for them to find in our favor."

Carson was taken with Mary's reflective tone and sought to pick up her spirits.

"Milady, I know you were disappointed by the loss of Mr. Patrick and the disarray the estate was left in, but you mustn't give up. If I may say so, you are still very young, and you remain the first daughter of one the grandest houses in England. Only the most worthy man may win you."

Mary smiled, touched by his words, a salve on her wounded pride.

"We're all behind you, milady," he continued. "The staff. We're all on your side."

"Thank you, Carson. You've always been so kind to me. Always. From when I was quite a little girl. Why is that?"

"Even a butler has his favorites, my lady."

"Does he? I'm glad."

They danced in contented silence for a few measures before Mary spoke again.

"Are you glad to be back here, Carson, after the time away? Is the staff?"

"We are, milady. Leaving was a shock and the rescue of the estate by Mr. Crawley a greater one still, but it has been a happy return."

Mary thought for a moment before asking her next question. "What do you think of Mr. Crawley, Carson?"

"I might not have thought so before of the son of a doctor, but he has proven himself an able master and one worthy of his forebears."

Mary smiled, picturing the ever-so-proud butler having to face the "indignity" of reporting to a middle class man.

"He couldn't do it without your help," she said, sincerely believing it to be true.

Carson smiled kindly. Turning, he saw Matthew standing a few feet away and talking with Robert. He led them in that direction, and before Mary realized what he was doing, Carson stepped away and motioned for Matthew to take over.

Matthew, surprised by Carson's approach, looked to Mary. She smiled as if to accept the turn of events, and then walked into his arms and let him lead her away from the two men who had brought her up, who loved her dearly and who still harbored the hope that she would someday be mistress of Downton Abbey.

"So, are you enjoying your new life?" Mary asked Matthew as they danced.

"I am. Business with the estate is going well, as is my work with the partnership." He paused for a moment. "I know all that seems very trivial to you."

"Not necessarily. Sometimes I rather envy you, having somewhere to go every morning."

"I thought that made me very middle class," he said pointedly, though his tone was light.

Mary smiled. "You should learn to forget what I say. I know I do."

"How about you?" He asked. "Is your life proving satisfactory?"

"Women like me don't have a life. We choose clothes and pay calls and work for charity and do the season, but really, we're stuck in a waiting room until we marry."

"I've made you angry," he said, apologetically.

"My life makes me angry, not you," Mary looked up as she spoke and their eyes locked. Matthew held his breath, able for the first time since they'd met to inspect her features up close. There was no denying how beautiful she was.

Unable to hold her unwavering gaze, he looked away and took a deep breath. "I'm sorry that you don't feel happier on a night like this."

"It's as much my fault as anyone else's. I like to put on a stoic front, but I've a bad habit of dwelling on my own misery—selfish as I know it is to call my very comfortable life miserable."

"We are all entitled to our feelings, regardless of our situation."

"I'm at least resolving not to make others miserable with me. So, if I've taken you out of your humor, I apologize. I'd hate to think I'm the only one of your dance partners this evening who didn't make you laugh."

Matthew smiled. "Don't worry on that account. Miss O'Brien barely cracked a smile. I fear she finds me most unsuitable for my current position."

"Well, then that makes two of us."

Matthew's brow furrowed.

"Oh, goodness!" Mary said with a hint of a blush rising to her cheeks. "I mean she finds us both—_me_ unsuitable as well, not that I think you . . . certainly not—I mean, I know you think I did, but . . . well . . . I would never . . . not anymore."

Matthew laughed heartily at her embarrassed ramblings. "See, there, you've done it. You've made me laugh."

Mary rolled her eyes and smiled. "At my own expense."

"Whatever gets the job done."

Mary wasn't sure, but she might have felt his hand tighten on her waist. For the rest of their dance, she still thought things between them were unresolved. But now it was in a good way.

**XXX**

After many cups of punch and dances with just about every female present except for the only one he was interested in dancing with, Tom left the ball to find the bathroom. On his way back, he saw none other than Sybil coming in his direction. She smiled as he approached.

"I was looking for mama," she said. "I think she escaped to the library."

"I've no sense of when the festivities will end tonight," Tom said playfully, "but I'm not leaving until we've had a dance so you best resolve that we've built enough _anticipation _for it right now."

Sybil laughed. "Thank you for being patient with me. I suppose it's silly . . . "

"What?" He asked quietly.

"I don't want others remarking on our friendship," she said quietly. "All the talk of Patrick with Mary and Patrick with Edith . . . it wasn't good for either of them. I know granny and mama had plenty to say about Mary and Mr. Napier, all of it for naught. And, well, I'm afraid what I think of you would be quite obvious if so many prying eyes were to see us dancing."

She looked up and found a soft, understanding on his face. "What makes you so sure anyone would notice?" He asked.

"I'm not sure," she said with a shrug. "Like I said it's silly, but I want what's between us to be just—"

"Between us," he finished.

She sighed and rolled her eyes at herself. "Oh, I suppose we should just go on," she said as she took his hand with the intention of leading him back to the ballroom, but when she pulled he didn't budge. Sybil turned back to him, a questioning expression on her face. Smiling, Tom pulled her into a nearby sitting room and into his arms into a dancing position.

"Ready?" he asked.

Sybil nodded. "But I can barely hear the music."

"We'll make our own then. How about a waltz?"

"A waltz?"

Tom nodded and started to hum the melody of Tchaikovzky's Waltz of the Flowers and slowly moving in the appropriate step.

Sybil giggled but followed his lead.

"Hush! I'll lose the tune."

Sybil pulled her lips into her mouth to keep herself from laughing, and he continued humming, sometimes adding a whistle for effect.

Eventually, as they continued moving around the small room, eyes intent on one another, Sybil's desire to laugh went away and was replaced by a desire of another sort entirely.

Neither knew exactly how it happened, but at some point . . .

Tom stopped humming . . .

And they stopped moving . . .

And her right hand moved from his left hand onto his shoulder . . .

And both of his hands were at her waist . . .

And she might have stopped breathing as she watched his eyes look down from her own eyes to her lips . . .

That was the moment at which the grandfather clock in the room very loudly struck midnight.

The chime was so loud they jolted apart. Both of them, a bit breathless from what had almost happened, laughed through each of the twelve times the chime sounded.

When it was quiet again, having slowed his breath, though not his quickly beating heart, Tom approached Sybil again and taking her face into his hands gave her a small, chaste kiss on the forehead.

"Happy New Year, my dearest Sybil," he said in a whisper

Sybil took his left hand from where it held her face and placed an equally small, equally chaste kiss on the back of it. Then, she threaded her fingers with his.

Tom, moved by her gesture, took a deep breath to collect himself and looked down at his feet. "We should go back, lest everyone notice we're gone and we _really _get them talking."

Sybil snickered and hand-in-hand they walked back to the ballroom together, but taking care to let go before they stepped through the doors.

It didn't matter. The crowd was too happy in celebration of the newly arrived year to notice.

Tom and Sybil walked over to where Matthew, Mary and Edith were standing next to Violet, who remained in her chair.

"Happy New Year, my dears," she said, smiling at they approached, then turning to the full group, she added, "Dare we hope the coming year will not be nearly so eventful as the last?"

The five young people looked at one another smiling in silent agreement about how very unlikely that was.


	21. Chapter 21

_Thanks for reading and all that stuff! This chapter is for dustedoffanoldie, who has asked for this meeting several times ;) Hope it lives up to expectations!_

* * *

**March 1913**

As her son got older and he grew into his father's handsome features, Claire Branson wondered what kind of girl Tom would attract. Although in the past he'd spoken adamantly about eventually wanting to marry a woman who would share his political interests, work ethic and intellectual curiosity, Tom had never been particularly effusive when it came to talking about girls who interested him in general, something his mother had attributed to the English influence in his upbringing. But in the early spring of 1913, Tom's more passionate Irish nature began to emerge, proving Claire's assumptions wrong. If Tom had seemed stoic before, his mother guessed now, it had been because he hadn't met the right girl. Apparently, now, he had.

Tom didn't realize it was happening, of course, which was a source of amusement for his mother. But there was a spark in his eye when he talked to Claire about certain books _someone _had recommended or about women's politics or about visits to Downton Abbey during which he'd had a particularly interesting conversation with the youngest of the Crawley daughters, the only resident of the big house whose words he ever seemed to remember verbatim. It was a subtle change that only the keen eye of a mother could notice, and while endearing to watch, the prospect also worried Claire a bit.

No English lady that she had ever heard of would be satisfied with a middle class life. And Claire knew that when the time came, the lengths that she and Isobel had gone to in order to protect Tom might well go out the window, because when it came to marrying into the upper classes, all bets were off. Claire never pressed Tom about his feelings, knowing that he always revealed anything that was important to him when he was ready. But she couldn't help her curiosity. And on the second Saturday in March of 1913, the fates conspired in her favor to satisfy her.

Some might call it the luck of the Irish. Claire Branson settled on divine intervention. What else would have compelled her to walk up to the front hall of the house at the precise moment Lady Sybil Crawley knocked on the door?

It had become Isobel's routine to visit the hospital on Saturday mornings, and on this particular day, she'd invited Tom and Matthew to see the progress that had been made in the rebuilding of one of the wings that had been shuttered in the time the Crawleys had been gone from the village. Ivy had gone to take a turn in one of the village parks with the footman from the big house who'd been coming around more and more often the last few months. Claire, having been entrusted with Ivy's well being by her parents when they'd left Manchester, insisted that Moseley serve as their chaperone, a role Moseley accepted with more enthusiasm than Ivy liked.

That was how Claire came to be left alone in the house. She chose to take advantage of the rare solitude by cleaning out and reorganizing her pantry, a task only a lifelong cook and housekeeper could enjoy. Tom liked to tease her that she guarded the cupboard so strictly—regularly chastising Ivy for not putting things back in the exact right place—that it was a bit like her second child. But having grown up in a family in which everyone was expected to work from the time they could walk, she had learned to take pride in a job well done. Pride, after all, was the only thing her parents had been able to afford to give to their children.

Once finished with the pantry, Claire reread the two letters from her aunt and cousins in Ireland that had arrived with yesterday's post. She wrote her responses in short order and then, in search of reading material, headed up to the parlor, where Moseley would leave the crisply ironed newspapers her son didn't finish reading at breakfast, so Tom could take them up again with his afternoon tea.

She'd only just crossed the hall when she heard the light knock. So soft was the sound that if Claire had been anywhere in the house except that very spot she might have missed it.

Divine intervention, indeed.

Surprised that anyone would be calling now, Claire smoothed out her skirt and moved to open the door. The young lady on the other side of it smiled brightly, though her expression made it clear she'd expected someone else.

"Oh, hello," she said softly.

"Good morning, miss," Claire replied in a friendly tone. "I'm afraid Mrs. Crawley is out at the moment. Would you like to leave a note or card? I'll be sure to give it to her when she returns."

"Is Mr. Branson in?" The girl asked tentatively.

Claire hesitated, turning her head slightly. "No, both he and Mr. Crawley have gone with Mrs. Crawley to the hospital."

"I see," she said, shoulders dropping ever so slightly. "Would you let them know Sybil Crawley came by?"

Claire recognized the name immediately. Given her training as a servant, her demeanor revealed nothing, but her mind was reeling.

_My goodness, Tommy, the girl _is _beautiful._

"Certainly, I will."

"Thank you." Sybil smiled at Claire once more and turned to go.

Claire was about to shut the door, when she heard Sybil's voice again.

"Pardon me," she said coming back to the door. "I apologize sincerely for the impertinence, but . . . are you . . . Mrs. Branson?"

Claire was unsure as to how to respond. Tom had intimated to her that he'd revealed his parentage to her, but in this moment, Claire wasn't sure what to do with that knowledge. "I am the housekeeper here, milady," was all she could come up with.

"I know!" Sybil exclaimed. Then, checking her excitement at having the chance to meet Tom's mother, she continued more quietly. "That is, Tom's told me about you. He speaks very highly of you. I've always wanted to say hello when I've come for tea with Cousin Isobel but . . ."

"A bit odd to ask the mistress permission to chat with the help?" Claire filled for her, smiling at Sybil's exuberance.

Sybil nodded, smiling. Unsure of what to do next, she stood at the door and fidgeted with her small bag. "I'll be off then," she said finally, "Thank you for relaying the message. It was very nice to meet you." With her last words, Sybil stepped forward and offered Claire her hand to shake. Claire was a bit taken aback, but shook Sybil's hand, touched by the sincerity she could see in the young woman's eyes.

Sybil turned to go again, but this time it was Claire who stopped her.

"Lady Sybil?"

Sybil turned. "Yes?"

"I reckon they'll be back by and by, if you'd like to come inside and wait."

Sybil's face brightened and she followed Claire into the house.

Claire took Sybil's coat and hat, placing them on the hooks by the door. Then, she led Sybil to the parlor and gestured for her to sit. "May I get you some tea, milady?"

"That would be nice, thank you."

Claire smiled and headed to the kitchen. She was at the sink filling the kettle when she heard the steps of someone coming into the kitchen.

"Ivy, are you back already?" Claire asked without turning around.

"It's Sybil."

Claire turned, eyebrows raised in surprise.

"I'm sorry for the intrusion," Sybil said quietly, stepping into the room. "I thought we could chat while you prepared our tea."

_Our._

Claire looked at Sybil for a long moment. The incongruity of such a delicate, well dressed, innocently eager girl in her clean but sparse kitchen made Claire smile in spite of herself.

**XXX**

"It's really coming along quite nicely, mother. You should be proud."

Isobel smiled at Matthew's praise as she, Matthew and Tom walked back to the house.

"It will soon be at full capacity again," she said. "I've come to the point I don't think adding beds will be too ambitious a plan."

"I am surprised at how welcoming Dr. Clarkson was of our help with the accounting," Matthew said.

Isobel laughed. "Your father was a stubborn man who needed to keep his hand in every part of the practice. Mercifully, Dr. Clarkson is not so."

"Finding efficiencies that allow for the purchase of more medicines was a convincing argument," Tom said with a smile, walking up to the door and holding it open for Isobel.

Isobel nodded as she passed him into the house. Walking through the hall, she stopped at the sound of laughter coming from the kitchen.

"Ivy and Mrs. Branson are in a bright way today, by the sound of it," she said, turning back to Tom and Matthew, who were walking in behind her.

"Happy spirits don't usually overlap with those two," Tom said.

"Alfred coming 'round may have something to do with it on Ivy's part," Matthew said with a smirk.

Tom laughed. "You may be right about that. I'll go tell them we're back."

But when Tom made it into the kitchen, it wasn't Ivy sitting and laughing at the table with his mother.

It was Sybil.

"Speak of the devil," his mother said brightly, as they turned to him.

_Oh, dear._

Sybil stood. "Your mum's been telling me about your youth in Manchester."

"Which bits?" Tom asked, a bit nervously.

"The good ones," Claire responded innocently, also standing and starting to collect the empty tea cups.

"Like when you were eight and got stuck climbing up the tree in the yard and Dr. Crawley had to summon the constable to get you down," Sybil said, grinning.

"Overconfidence is not a trait that's developed recently," Claire said to Sybil, with a wink.

"Was there a, um, reason for your visit, Sybil?" Tom asked, nervously.

"There is, as a matter of fact," she said walking up to him. "Gwen's been given the afternoon off, and I thought if you were not busy, you might come by and talk about her interview."

"Of course. What time?"

"I was thinking three o'clock at our—" Sybil stopped short, remembering they were not alone. She glanced at Claire, then back to Tom. "Why don't we meet you at the gate?"

Tom smiled. "I'll be there."

Sybil smiled back, then turned back to Claire. "Thank you ever so much for the tea, Mrs. Branson, and the conversation. It was a delight."

"You're most welcome, my dear. Don't forget about us, now. Do come back and visit again."

"Certainly."

"Would you like me to walk you out?" Tom asked.

"That's all right. I'll go say hello to Cousin Isobel before I'm off. I know my way."

Once she was gone from the kitchen Tom turned back to his mother, who was smiling with a knowing look on her face. "She's quite a nice girl."

Tom looked down at the floor and scratched his head. "I think I'll go up to my room for a bit. Do some reading before luncheon."

"We're going to have this conversation," Claire said with a laugh. "Or do you think you can avoid me forever?"

Tom turned to go, unable to keep himself from smiling. "I can try."

**XXX**

Tom did manage to escape Crawley House that afternoon without further inquiry from his mother regarding Sybil's visit. He did not, however, escape the teasing of Matthew, who saw him in the hall on his way out of the house and asked what Claire had thought of the young woman.

"Or are you afraid to face her?"

"I'm not afraid of my mother, Matthew," Tom responded.

"Is that why you've been so bravely hidden away in your room since midday?"

"For your information, I happened to be finishing a harrowing read."

Matthew crossed his arms. "And what was that?"

"The Servile State."

Matthew laughed. "Not even you can get _that_ excited about post-Industrial economic theory."

"How would you know? According to Belloc, the ultimate result of capitalism will be a devolution of the work force into de facto slavery."

"Well, you're not going to change the world this afternoon," Matthew said with a smile. "Aren't you spending it with Sybil?"

"As a matter of fact, we're helping a housemaid make a new life for herself outside the bounds of service."

"And that's going to change the world?" Matthew asked wryly.

"You don't know, Gwen," Tom said opening the door to leave. "It might."

Tom could hear Matthew laugh as he stepped out the door, and he smiled.

Since they'd met there at Christmas, Tom and Sybil had been returning to the place by the creek just inside the Downton Abbey gates on the occasional afternoon. Most of the time, they would discuss books or the news of the day. Twice, Sybil had brought poetry for them to read. From time to time, each of them still thought back to the moment they had shared dancing alone at the servants' ball and what had _almost _happened, but they never discussed it, somehow silently agreeing to retreat back into the comfort of their ever deepening friendship and leaving physical attraction and the complications that came with it aside for the time being.

Tom sometimes wondered whether Matthew ever suspected how much time they spent together outside the notice of their families, but if Matthew actually did know, he never let on. This morning, in the kitchen in front of his mother, Sybil had almost given the game away. Still, Tom couldn't help but be endeared when she called it "our spot," which she'd clearly just been about to do again. Gwen would be the first third party to be invited there. As Tom approached the gates, though, he only saw Sybil, who waved as he approached.

"Does Gwen have to work after all?" He asked, lifting his hat in greeting.

"She was delayed a bit, helping Anna make up a room for Aunt Rosamund. She's apparently decided to arrive early for Mary's birthday next week. Anyway, Gwen will be here soon. She knows where to go, so we can start walking there, if you like."

They fell into step together toward the creek, and Sybil held out a book she'd been holding behind her.

"I brought this for you."

"Excellent timing," he said with a smile. "I just finished one earlier today."

"Anything I would like?"

"Depends on your interest in theoretical economics."

Sybil scrunched up her nose in distaste. "Maybe if I'm having trouble sleeping."

Tom laughed.

"I understand that the two are intertwined," Sybil said, "but I must say politics is far more interesting and feels much more immediately relevant to our lives than economics."

"And what's this?" Tom asked, holding up the book she'd just handed him.

"A collection of stories by Joseph Conrad," Sybil responded. "It came in a box that papa ordered from London. I've not read it, but I know how much you liked Heart of Darkness, so . . ."

"Thank you," he said. "I have something for you as well."

"Oh?"

Tom pulled out a thick volume from the inside of his jacket. "It's called A Thousand and One Nights. I bought it from a colleague who read it after visiting the orient last year. It's mostly just a collection of tales and fables from the Arabian traditions, but the framework is rather interesting."

Sybil took the book from him. "How is that?"

"This Persian sultan's wife is unfaithful to him, and when he finds out, he has her killed. Then, he vows to marry a new woman at the start of each day and have her executed at the end of it to prevent from being cuckolded ever again."

"How gruesome!"

"Eventually, he marries a woman who uses her intellect to outsmart him and manages to keep herself alive the number of days on the title, at the end of which he lets her live."

"How?"

"You'll have to read and find out won't you," he said with a wink.

Sybil smiled and flipped through the book, stopping at an annotated illustration. "Scheherazade?"

"That's her name."

"She looks like she's wearing clothes by Paul Poiret."

"Who?"

"He's a French fashion designer whose work has Asian influences. He appears in London magazines all the time. His clothes are very beautiful, though I doubt we're likely to see anything like them here in the country."

"Why is that?"

"I don't know anyone brave enough to break convention in quite that way."

"Are you sure about that?"

She smiled. "It pains me to say it , but despite my almost 18 years of age, my mother still doesn't trust me to go to the dressmaker alone." Sybil laughed. "I can't say I blame her."

"What do you think she's afraid of?"

"Me choosing for myself, I suppose. I would try for something too _unconventional_."

"And we can't have that at Downton Abbey."

They both laughed. As they approached the rock by the creek where Sybil usually sat, she looked at Tom from the side of her eyes. "Speaking of mothers. . ."

Tom looked down to his feet and smiled. "We didn't talk much after you left, but I do think she enjoyed meeting you."

"I liked her very much," Sybil said. After a moment, she added more quietly, "I hope you didn't think it an intrusion. I just went over to tell you about Gwen and when she answered the door, well, I should have just left, but couldn't help myself."

Tom smiled. "I'm sorry it wasn't me who introduced you properly, although you now have ample evidence as to why I might have wanted to delay, given the exuberance with which she enjoys discussing the caprices of my childhood."

Sybil tilted her head slightly. "You're lucky to have her close. My parents have known families who have taken in children to improve their circumstances, but this is usually done with the condition that they cut ties with their past. Dr. Crawley was doubly generous in affording you an education and a life close to your mother. I can see her influence in you and you're a better man for it."

A slight blush came over Tom cheeks, not out of embarrassment, but pride. The frankness of Sybil's words affected him deeply. They revealed just how well she'd gotten to know him. She recognized and was attracted not just to the polish of education and gentlemanly manners that the Crawleys had provided, but also to the rougher, more ardent-hearted character that his mother had kept alive in him.

They looked at one another for a moment before both turning upon hearing footsteps.

"Begging your pardon," Gwen said tentatively, fearing she'd arrived during a private moment. "I don't mean to interrupt."

Sybil smiled warmly. "Don't be silly, Gwen." She stepped forward to take Gwen's arm and brought her to the rock, motioning Gwen to sit down. "We have it all planned out. Tom is going to make as if he's interviewing you for a job, and he'll be giving you advice on how to answer as you go. I'll be just over there."

Sybil pointed to a spot on the grass a short distance away where Tom had laid down his suit jacket as Sybil had been talking. He walked backed toward them and as he did so, he rolled up his shirtsleeves.

Gwen was too sensible a girl to get caught up in thoughts of men's looks, as Daisy was sometimes prone to do, but in that moment, watching him approach her with an easy smile, Gwen couldn't help but think to herself how handsome a man Mr. Branson was and how lucky Sybil was to have his attention.

Having left Tom and Gwen to their task, Sybil sat down where Tom had laid his coat with the intent of starting the book he had brought for her. After opening it to the first page, however, she couldn't stop herself from looking over and watching them interact.

Remembering her talk with Mrs. Branson earlier that day, it occurred to Sybil that both Tom and Gwen were children of people in service and that given their mental acuity and aspirations, they actually had more in common with one another than Sybil had with either of them. Sybil's aristocratic birth and upbringing, her lack of a formal education and her never having worked a day in her life—all of it embarrassed her deeply in the face of two people who had done so much for themselves and had _worked _to find their happiness. Sybil couldn't understand how it was that her father, her grandmother even Mary could feel any sort of pride in a lifestyle they had not earned, where she only felt a longing to do more.

Sybil looked away and realized she was crying when the first tear fell on the open book on her lap. Of course, she immediately felt foolish for wanting more when life had already given her so much. But how could it be helped? None of the things her life afforded were things she wanted. Her two most treasured possessions—her friendships with Tom and Gwen—had come to her quite by accident. Sybil wondered now, in fact, if a marginally different stroke of fate might have resulted in Tom falling in love with Gwen and never giving Sybil a moment's notice. At this thought, she took a deep breath and looked down at the book again, determined to put any thoughts of Tom with anyone else but her out of her mind.

She cleaned off the tear that had fallen on the book and flipped through to the illustration that she had happened upon earlier. She ran her fingers over the image of Scheherazade, who was wearing a revealing top quite like a brazier and a skirt that looked suspiciously like trousers. Sybil closed her eyes and tried to remember the magazine photograph of the fashion model dressed by Poiret that this illustration called to her mind.

She opened her eyes and smiled to herself. Her mother had promised her a trip to the dressmaker next month.

_All revolutions start somewhere._

**XXX**

Sitting on the rock, knowing there was nothing in particular at stake, Gwen still felt nervous as Tom paced back and forth in front of her.

"What's your name?" He asked in a serious tone.

"Gwen Dawson."

"And your age?"

"Twenty."

Tom stopped his pacing. "Answer in a full sentence. You'll sound more properly professional."

"I'm twenty-years-old, sir."

"Good. Now, what's your experience as a secretary?"

"I haven't got any."

Tom chuckled. "You can't very well say that."

"Well, it's the truth, ain't it?" Gwen sighed. "Oh, it's no use. How do I think this is possible? They haven't even written back with a date. It's likely they've forgotten all about me."

Tom walked over and kneeled in front of her. "Gwen, you don't know that. And if even if they don't write, there will be other jobs and other interviews, for which you will need to be prepared."

"But I don't have experience as a secretary! Am I supposed to lie?"

Tom looked down and smiled. "If jobs were only given to people with experience, nobody would get hired for the first time. There are thousands of secretaries working around England, and all of them had to begin somewhere."

"How did they do it?"

"How long have you been in service?"

"Since I was fifteen."

"OK, when someone asks you as to your experience, you say, 'I've been working for five years, and I've completed a secretarial course with top marks. I have good typing speeds, and I'm proficient in short-hand."

"But if I say that I haven't really answered the question."

"The question is beside the point. An interviewer just wants to know if you can do the job, and you have to convince them that you can. Tell them you can with every answer regardless of what they actually ask."

Gwen smiled and let out a long sigh. "I just wish I could believe it's possible."

Tom smiled. "Gwen, you do believe it. Everything about your life—your parents, your upbringing, your job as a maid, Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes—all of it is built to convince you that you deserve only as much as you have and nothing more. Society beats the spirit of working class people down so they learn from early on that doing the bidding of those who are supposedly above them is all they are meant to do and so they fail in any attempts to rise above those circumstances. The fact that you've come this far, that this aspiration has not been beaten out of you is proof you believe it."

Gwen shrugged. "I might have already given up if it weren't for Lady Sybil."

"Well, we all need our champions, and you could not do better than her."

Gwen smiled at the catch in his voice when he said _her_. She looked at him for a moment with narrowed eyes. "Why do you have such confidence in me that I can do this? You barely know me."

"Because she knows you and because I know it can be done. How we live, not how we are born determines our fate—if that weren't true mankind would have died out long ago."

"I wish I knew someone who'd taken the leap, as it were."

"You know me."

Gwen looked at him curiously.

"My journey started at an earlier age and with more help than you've been given, but that doesn't mean you aren't capable of completing it just the same. By helping you I am repaying the generosity of my benefactor forward, and someday you'll give some other person this same help. And that person will do the same to someone else and so on and so forth. That's how we'll change the world."

Gwen smiled. "Thank you."

"Shall we start again?" He asked, standing.

Gwen took a deep breath, then nodded.

"What's your name?"

**XXX**

It was close to two hours later when Tom, Sybil and Gwen emerged from the wood and said their goodbyes before Tom set off back to Crawley House. He, Matthew and Isobel would be returning that evening for dinner.

Gwen still wasn't sure a job would ever materialize, but she at least felt more upbeat with regard to her ability to take an interview—if one ever came her way. The progress in her attitude pleased Sybil.

"Oh, Gwen, I'll miss you so when you are gone from us."

"You speak as if you know it'll happen."

"I do!"

Gwen smiled indulgently. "I wish I shared your confidence."

"Whereas I wish I had such an exciting challenge to look forward to."

The young women giggled at their own pining and linked arms to walk back to the house together. Their worlds growing larger before them through the power of friendship.


	22. Chapter 22

_I can hardly believe it, but If Things Were Different now has 100 followers! Thank you all so much for giving this story a chance and continuing on with me through my alternate season one. I really hope I can continue to keep your interest even though the pace may seem slow at times. Thank you also for all the reviews. I love to hear people's thoughts, good or bad, so please keep them coming._

_This and the next chapter are companion pieces, and are heavy on Sybil. This one goes into her friendships and the next will be her growing interest in rebellion and politics and will finish out season one episode four scenes, including the pamphlets Tom gives her and the pants. _

_One important note. Although I mention that Matthew is now in charge of the running of the house, the family is still seeing to its own personal expenses (clothes, travel, the season, etc.) with what's left of Cora's money, so they are able to buy themselves what they want/need. What I mean by the "running of the house" is salary of the staff, food (including for parties and guests), and anything regarding general upkeep. That is being paid for by the proceeds from the rental of Downton Place and Matthew's fortune from Lavinia. Eventually, the proceeds from the yield from estate farms will cover it. I point this out because I want to make clear that while Robert has sort of washed his hands of things, Matthew isn't the one approving what the Crawleys buy for themselves. He is smart enough to have given them a wide berth on this in order to avoid conflict. All he wants is for the running of the house and estate to be efficient. The Crawleys can spend however they like what is essentially still their money (Cora's money won't be Matthew's until he's earl). _

_As always, I'll write up additional notes on the chapter and post on tumblr (magfreak tumblr com, with periods instead of spaces) if you are interested. _

_Enjoy!_

* * *

**May 1913**

As the early warmth of March gave way to the rains of April and the first sunny days of May, Downton Abbey came into full bloom, a sight its inhabitants welcomed dearly having missed it the year before. It had been a sleepy spring in the house. Robert had more or less settled into a sort of retirement. It was not so different from his previous life, save for the fact that he was no longer drowning in concerns over whether or not the estate would make it through another year.

After negotiations with those who chose retirement, about sixty percent of the land remained in tenancy. The families who stayed, reinvigorated by the energy and hard work of the young men now at the helm, were eager to start planting this year's crops and see their stock start to fatten up again on the land's greening grasses. Although the idea that their work would be compensated by more than a mere subsistence had been met with some skepticism at first, spring brought many of the village lads out of the woodwork, and William had little trouble staffing the estate farms that eventually would provide for the upkeep of the house and grounds.

On a recent tour of the farms with Matthew and Tom, many of them had gone out of their way to thank Robert for his generosity, saying they counted themselves lucky to have a landlord who was affording them a path toward true financial independence. Matthew and Tom encouraged Robert to accept the compliments, though the vision for modernization and a more equitable distribution of the spoils had not been his. They did so to assuage the effort it had taken Robert to swallow his pride and accept their plan in the first place. Initially, Robert questioned whether the very tenants who had been so despondent before, when the family left Downton, could be so much more willing to work now.

"Having never had to work at all," Tom had answered, "you find it difficult to empathize with the desire to do so for your own cause rather than someone else's, and how true ownership, in turn, makes the work more rewarding."

Robert remained unsurprisingly obstinate in his view that Tom's socialism was naïve at best and dangerous at worst. And yet Tom was, by and large, the one who could bring Robert around to his and Matthew's way of thinking when that needed doing. The irony of this was not lost on Robert. And the truth was that while he enjoyed fighting his corner when it came to casual political talk after dinner, Robert could admit to himself now that he had never been fit for the task of running Downton. Neither his education nor upbringing had prepared him for it. The loss of the estate, though temporary, had opened his eyes to this truth. The ease with which the young men set about correcting his folly only confirmed it. However bluntly that truth had come, Robert accepted it with a measure of calm. Something his wife appreciated.

For Cora, calm had been a much welcome change after the upheaval the family had faced for the last two years. The quiet of the first few months of the year had allowed her to think about how to ease the family back into the busy social schedule they had been used to keeping. The season was coming upon them quickly, but Cora also wanted to begin hosting parties again as well as inviting more friends to stay—something that hadn't happened since the death of Kemal Pamuk. She consulted Matthew about the topic, and he acquiesced more easily than she had expected. He understood, of course, that what was his was his because it couldn't be Mary's, and he did not want to stand in the way of successful marriages for any of the girls. So while he cautioned Cora against indiscriminate spending, he acknowledged that for this particular cause the purse strings could be loosened.

Downton Abbey was as powerful a tool as any in Cora's efforts to get her daughters settled. If Mary was going to be thrown to the wolves with no fortune to take with her, Cora believed she had no choice but to wield it. There was an unmistakable aura to the house that reminded any visitor of the family's lineage and influence through the ages. Cora herself had bought her way in. _Surely_, she thought, _others would seek out the association._ And in April, Cora received a letter that presented an opportunity to re-establish Downton as a place to be, especially among those in society who might have written off the family when they had been forced to leave.

The letter was from Lady Priscilla Wilkes, wife of Sir John Wilkes and mother to Miss Imogen Wilkes. They were former neighbors who had resided in nearby Hartfield Park until three years ago, when his shipping business took Sir John and his family to New York. Imogen was the same age as Sybil. In their early childhood, the two girls had been close friends, and in a year, they would be debuting together. Lady Priscilla detailed in her letter that the family was returning to England now to have the year to prepare for Imogen's season, because despite their time in America, the Wilkes were English through and through and could not imagine bringing their daughter out anywhere but London. After landing in Liverpool, Lady Priscilla wanted to bring the family back to Yorkshire for a visit before heading to their house in London. Cora proffered the invitation knowing that there were few women in society she could invite to Downton who would make every detail of the visit known in the right circles more reliably than Lady Priscilla.

The Wilkes docked in Liverpool the first week of May, and Lady Priscilla quickly sent a letter off to Downton ahead of their arrival.

The first week of May also happened to be the week of the village fair, and the day letter was making its way to the house, Cora, Sybil and Edith took a late afternoon walk through the village green, where the fair was being set up.

Sybil and Edith both had been in bright spirits recently, which pleased Cora. Edith, in particular, seemed finally to be coming out of her shell and willing to step out of Mary's shadow. She had even expressed excitement about the upcoming season. Unfortunately for Cora, the excitement had brought with it a not insignificant amount of complaining regarding her wardrobe. This was an area where Cora often came into disagreement with her daughters, who were constantly surprised as to how a New Yorker could have such conservative taste.

On their walk, a recent edition of Vogue—which Cora's mother, Martha, sent to the girls regularly along with her letters—was the topic of conversation.

"I really wish mother would stop sending that magazine," Cora said, addressing Edith. "It's not as if you and Mary don't complain enough about what we've bought you to wear."

"Did you and grandmamma quarrel about such things?" Sybil asked her mother.

"Constantly," Cora answered with a sigh.

"Well, perhaps she sends it as a form of retribution," Sybil said, making Cora smile.

"Grandmamma always dresses in the latest fashions," Edith said. "I don't see why we can't."

"Honestly, Edith," Cora said, "you only wore about half the dresses you brought to London last year."

"_Sybil _is getting to go to the dressmaker this week," Edith said.

"She is," Cora said.

"Why is Sybil having a new dress and not me?"

"Because it's Sybil's turn," Cora replied, plainly.

"Can it be my choice this time?" Sybil asked carefully. Her plans for her new frock had been churning in her mind since March, when Tom had given her the book about Scheherazade.

"Of course, darling, as long as you choose what I choose."

Sybil bit her tongue, knowing that insisting at this early stage would only ensure that her mother _would_ accompany her to Madam Swann's and order the dress herself.

Having circled the green, the three came back upon Pratt, who had been waiting for them at the village's main crossing. Seeing them approach, he walked to the side of the car and opened the door.

"Pratt, you'll be taking Lady Sybil to Ripon tomorrow. She'll be leaving after luncheon," Cora said as she stepped in.

"Certainly, your ladyship," Pratt answered.

Once in, he went back around to the front of the car to start it for the journey home.

"Poor old Madame Swann," Sybil said, sitting beside her mother. "I don't know why we bother with fittings. She always makes the same frock."

"What do you want her to make?" Edith asked.

"Something new and exciting," Sybil answered, her eyes open wide with possibility.

"Heavens, look at the time," Cora said with a sigh. "Not a minute to change. And Granny's invited herself for dinner."

"Then she can jolly well wait," Sybil said, nodding her head with finality. Edith snickered in response.

"So, women's rights begin at home, I see," Cora said. "Well, I'm all for that."

**XXX**

The letter from Lady Priscilla was waiting for Cora when she, Edith and Sybil arrived back at the house. The Wilkes would be arriving in Downton the following day and would be staying for two nights. So after changing and then dispatching O'Brien to alert Carson, Mrs. Patmore and Mrs. Hughes so they could begin making preparations, Cora walked over to Sybil's room. She knocked lightly and without waiting for a response, let herself in.

Sybil was still only half-dressed. She and Gwen had been sitting on the edge of Sybil's bed talking, and both stood quickly upon hearing Cora enter.

Cora sighed in exasperation at the sight of her daughter.

"Gwen, please get on with it," Cora said.

Sybil turned with a roll of her eyes, so Gwen, who was blushing at having been "caught" not doing her work, could button the back of her dress. "Please don't chastise Gwen, mama, I asked her to sit down. We were talking about what I shall have Madame Swann design for me tomorrow."

"And what concern is that of Gwen's?" Cora asked.

"She helps me dress, doesn't she? I should say what kind of buttons or lacings Madame Swann may choose are of Gwen's utmost concern."

"I thought you didn't like help when you dressed," Cora said pointedly.

"I don't," Sybil responded, a cheeky smile forming on her lips. "Imagine your horror if you'd walked in here and I was doing just that."

"Horror, indeed," Cora said, unable to keep herself from breaking into a smile. _Sybil can be such a trial sometimes._

"So what did you need, mama? Or were you merely looking to approve of what I'd chosen to wear?"

"I came to tell you that the Wilkes family will be arriving tomorrow, so your visit to the dressmaker will have to wait until Wednesday. I thought maybe you could take Imogen to the fair in the afternoon."

Sybil snickered. "You don't remember her very well if you think such an outing will satisfy her discriminating sensibilities."

"Then think of something else, but remember that she'll be tired from travel."

"I'm sure she'll remind me."

"Well, anyway, it will give you a chance to get reacquainted. Perhaps you can ask _her_ for her thoughts on your new frock."

"I shall," Sybil said. "Now do leave us, mama, your hovering does not help Gwen's fingers move any faster."

Cora narrowed her eyes, thinking that she should stay and wait if she wanted her daughter down in a timely manner, but chose instead to cut her losses and take her leave. "All right, but don't be too long."

"I won't."

"Make sure she doesn't dally, Gwen."

"Certainly, milady," Gwen said quietly and curtseyed as she spoke.

"And don't worry," Cora said, "I know you are not the cause of Lady Sybil's being late for dinner."

As soon as Cora closed the door, Gwen let out a big sigh of relief. "Oh, milady, imagine if she had heard the _actual _topic of conversation!"

"She knows I'm helping you find a job," Sybil said turning back to face her. "But I daresay hearing us talk of _that _would have annoyed her more. That's why I made up the ruse about the frock. I do apologize. I love our chats, but I should remember that you might get you into trouble. Oh, Gwen it will be so much easier when you are a secretary and we can behave as proper friends."

"If only I could be so certain as you that day will come. The longer I wait for a reply from Thirsk about the interview, the more remote the possibility feels."

Sybil took Gwen's hands in her own. "We shall know soon. I can feel it."

Gwen smiled. "I'll go get your shoes, milady."

As Gwen was doing that, Sybil went over to her vanity and chose her earrings and necklace.

"Are you looking forward to seeing Miss Wilkes?" Gwen asked, walking back over from the wardrobe.

"She was always quite chatty and fancied herself the center of the universe," Sybil said with a giggle, slipping on her shoes as Gwen held them open. "But she was never spiteful. We enjoyed ourselves together very much. She was probably my closest friend, though it's been so long since I wonder whether we'd be friends if we met now."

"Well, you'll know the answer to that tomorrow, won't you?" Gwen said as she stood.

Sybil smiled warmly. "She was never so good a friend as you."

Gwen blushed. She looked down at her feet. The contrast of her dirty boots with Sybil's delicate satin slippers causing her to laugh quietly at the very absurdity of the idea that two young women of such different backgrounds could be so close. "Do you really think you'll want to stay friends? If I were to go, that is?"

"Of course, I do! And we will! " Sybil exclaimed. "Gwen, if either one of us is to fear our drifting apart it should be me."

"You?"

"The world will be opening up to you, and you will no longer be forced to indulge the silly ramblings of the daughter of your employers. I constantly wonder whether you talk with me only because you feel obligated."

Gwen smiled fully. "I don't, and, of course I will want to remain friends. How will I be expected to survive the world out there without you always telling me I can?"

"I'm glad I can offer at least that."

Gwen laughed. "There's much more, but I can't talk of it all now when her ladyship is waiting for you to go down."

Sybil rolled her eyes and made her way to the door, with Gwen following. "Oh, yes, we can't ever keep people with nothing to do waiting."

Sybil watched as Gwen headed toward the staircase to the servants hall, turning to go her own way only when Gwen was gone from her sight. It had been in the last three years, all the time that Imogen had been gone, that Sybil had found a friend in the young housemaid. As she walked toward the drawing room, Sybil considered how much she had grown in that period. Beyond the passage of time, her family's trials had also had an effect on the person she had become. Indeed, there was no telling what it would be like to see a friend from an era of her life that now seemed rather distant and foreign.

Regardless of how she and Imogen would find one another, however, Sybil couldn't deny that what she had said to Gwen about how strong _their_ friendship was was true. Whether it was by virtue of the fact that it had flourished during particularly formative years for them both or the fact that they'd weathered the family's recent ups and downs together, Sybil and Gwen had established a bond that both already knew would last for many years.

**XXX**

The following day, the Wilkes family arrived in the late morning and was welcomed by the family and staff, who had lined up outside to receive them. As Sir John and Lady Priscilla shared warm greetings with Robert and Cora, Imogen ran over to Sybil to embrace her old friend with such enthusiasm, Edith and Mary exchanged a bewildered glance.

"Oh, my darling Sybil, How lovely you look!" Imogen exclaimed. "You two as well," she said, addressing Edith and Mary, though barely turning to look at them.

To Sybil, Imogen looked much changed, the bouncy blonde locks Sybil remembered were tucked into a neat bun at the nape of her neck and covered by a flowery hat Sybil could only imagine was the very latest in New York style. Her formerly slim frame had filled out a bit but her height—she was tall like Mary—succeeded in hiding any pudginess. Her personality remained as effervescent as ever. Her accent was tempered now by an American influence, making her sound a bit like Cora, neither fully American nor fully English, but somewhere in the middle.

"Aren't you just so thrilled for our debut," she continued, taking Sybil's arm as the two families walked into the house. "How will we wait an entire year? Mama and papa really are too cruel to want me to be here so long before when Newport is such a delight in summer. You simply _must_ come over sometime. You would absolutely love it. We could have had the summer there and returned to London in the fall. It would have been perfect, but, alas, mama insisted on having a season here before we came to mine—Oh my, I should say _ours_ shouldn't I?—Oh, isn't Downton Abbey just as beautiful as I remember. I begged papa to have the chauffeur drive by Hartfield, but he was determined to arrive before luncheon. I suppose it's just as well as I am quite famished. He insisted on us leaving so early I barely had time to finish my breakfast. I daresay the sun was not even risen when we departed. But really who likes to stay in such a place as Liverpool for long? The smell of the ocean is only pleasant out in the open sea, don't you think? I do hope Mrs. Patmore remembers how much I like kidney pie."

"Imogen, dear, pace yourself," her father said as Alfred and Thomas took their coats and hats. "We've barely made it into the house."

"Papa, you cannot expect me to contain my excitement!"

Rolling her eyes and turning to Cora, Lady Priscilla added, "Thank you again, Cora, for having us. It's so lovely to be back among old friends."

"Not at all, my dear Priscilla."

"Unfortunately, we can only stay one night," Sir John added. "But I'm sure we'll be seeing much of you come June."

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that," Cora said. "What calls you back to London so soon?"

"The house is a frightful mess, I'm afraid," Lady Priscilla answered. "My cousin was just there, and we received her letter this morning. I am rather anxious to get it set up before the season and would prefer to be there in person to see to the details myself. You know how particular I am about such things. Mrs. Emma Willshire has offered us her house to stay this week."

"Well, I'm glad you are here for tonight at least. Carson will show you to your rooms. We'll have luncheon served in about an hour so you will have plenty of time to freshen up. The girls and I will be in the parlor in the meantime whenever you are ready to join us." Looking around at their four suitcases, Cora asked, "Is this all your luggage?"

"Heavens, no!" Lady Priscilla said. "We've sent most of it to the London house ahead of us. This is just for the days we'll be in Yorkshire."

"Cora, you did ask Matthew and Tom to luncheon?" Robert asked.

"I did," she replied.

Turning to Sir John, Robert said, "Matthew became my heir when James and Patrick perished on the Titanic. Tom is his adopted brother. They've turned the fortunes of the estate around quite marvelously. As a businessman, you shall enjoy meeting them."

"They have not been part of the family long but they are already very dear to us," Cora added. "They truly are wonderful young men."

At this, Imogen's eyes widened and she leaned into Sybil, squeezing her arm. "Wonderful to look at, I hope," she whispered excitedly. "Sybil, can you just imagine? In a year all of society's finest gentlemen will be there to fete _us_! I can scarcely contain myself. Do you fancy yourself ready for marriage. I fear that my husband will have to put up with quite a lot from me. Are your cousins very nice? Do you suppose they will make good husbands?"

Sybil laughed a bit unsure as to how to respond. "Matthew and Tom are . . . perfectly lovely people."

"You were always so graciously understated about everything, and me quite the opposite. What shall we do this afternoon? I saw that the fair was in town, perhaps we should go there."

"I wouldn't have guessed that would be your preference," Sybil said amused.

"I always did find Downton village a terrible bore, but it's been so long I suppose novelty is its own thrill. Do you think we can convince your papa to ask your chauffer to take us to Hartfield Park? I do so want to see it."

"Imogen, please, let us go upstairs to change," Lady Priscilla said, motioning to her daughter. "After luncheon, you and Sybil can plan whatever you like."

The Wilkes followed Carson up the stairs with Thomas and Sir John's valet following with the luggage.

As they did so, Robert, turning to go, said to Alfred, "Please let Sir John know I'm in the library once he's down again."

"Yes, sir," Alfred replied.

The girls followed their mother to the parlor.

"Imogen is as tiresome as I remember," Mary said with a roll of her eyes.

"I never understood how you put up with her," Edith said.

"She's not all bad," Sybil said with a smile. "Once you get used to her chatter, she's quite nice."

Mary sighed as they entered the parlor. "Sybil, I think that if the devil himself came to stay at Downton, you would find something redeeming in him," she said, sending her sisters into giggles and Cora into a proud smile.

**XXX**

Luncheon was a pleasant enough affair with the families slowly reacquainting themselves, and the Wilkes sharing their favorite stories of life in New York. Matthew joined the family and was greeted warmly by their friends, but he arrived alone with the news that Tom would be unable to join them until dinner.

As she talked with Imogen in the parlor and then throughout luncheon, Sybil began to remember the dynamic of their friendship. In the nursery, Imogen would always play the princess, relegating Sybil to a lady-in-waiting, a role Sybil didn't much mind. Indulging Imogen made convincing her to leave the nursery and explore the house and gardens later on much easier. And once outside the confines of their safe haven, in the darkened hallways of Downton or Harfield Park, or in the nearby woods, Sybil would turn into a dragon or an evil sorceress, and Imogen would easily and happily slip into the role of princess again. Imogen relished that role so dramatically, in fact, that she once gave Sybil a wooden sword so Sybil could also play her knight in shining armor. It was amusing to Sybil to look back and realize that those memories held hints of the woman she would become—one who preferred to be her own savior, rather than the damsel in distress.

After luncheon and after much pleading from Imogen, Robert allowed Pratt to take the girls for a drive around the county, including past the Wilkes's former home at Hartfield Park. Imogen, as per usual, dominated the conversation, but Sybil was happy to hear her vividly detailed stories about life in New York. Her friend spoke of beautiful new theaters and skyscrapers and baseball—Sir John's newly discovered favorite sport "details of which I am sure he is pestering your papa with right now!"—and, to Sybil's utter delight, the suffragette parade that had marched right in front of the Wilkes's Park Avenue apartment the year before.

"How wonderful!" Sybil exclaimed. "Oh, Imogen, I hope you support the cause as much as I do. Surely, you think that it's dreadful that women don't have the vote."

"Well, you can imagine how papa feels about all of that," Imogen said with a roll of her eyes. "As a woman I'm not entirely unsympathetic to the cause. They do make some excellent points, but watching them revealed to me that their style of clothing is most dreadful."

Sybil couldn't help but smile. "I think they have more important things on their mind than fashion."

"That may be true, darling, but I believe firmly they would be much more persuasive if they dressed in the latest styles, don't you think? Who wants to listen to any man or woman speak at length when he or she is wearing terribly drab clothing. I daresay even the most successful _male _politicians understand the important of their appearance. Perhaps that is what _I_ will bring to the cause! Let others concern themselves with the political ramifications. I shall teach every suffragette in England that if she wants her opinions to be heard the best way to get people's attention is by dressing herself for success."

The girls' laughter at Imogen's idea was such that even Pratt cracked a smile in the front seat. Sybil was so pleased that despite her superficially flighty nature, Imogen considered herself a modern woman ("In thinking _and _style, dearest, for both are important!") and was not closed off to new ideas like the vote. Once they had calmed themselves, Sybil mentioned her upcoming trip to the dressmaker and what she planned to ask for. Imogen was not so interested and by extension not so well versed in literature and politics as Sybil, but she was nothing if not a forward thinker when it came to fashion. And she obviously understood the power of clothing when one wanted to make a statement.

"Oh, it will be scandalous, to be sure, my dear Sybil, but _divinely _so."

It was all the encouragement Sybil needed.

Eventually, after their tour of Hartfield Park ("Isn't it just perfect, Sybil? I shall be mistress here someday—even if I have to buy it myself!"), Pratt took the girls back around to Downton village and the fair. They had been walking around arm-in-arm for about half an hour when Sybil spotted Tom. He was walking his bicycle through the fair, obviously on his way home from the train station and work. She wondered momentarily whether to call out to him or simply let him go on his way, knowing that they would see him at dinner, and feeling a bit unsure as to what he'd make of Imogen and what she, in turn, would make of him. Before she made up her mind, however, he turned in their direction.

Imogen, seeing who had caught Sybil's eye, immediately stopped her and squeezed her arm. "Oh, my! Sybil, who is _that _coming toward us?" She said in an excited whisper, leaning into Sybil slightly.

"That's Tom . . . um, Mr. Tom Branson. Papa mentioned him when you first arrived. He was meant to join us at luncheon but was unable to come."

"What an absolute pity to have missed conversing with _him_! Mr. Crawley was nice enough, but I did find him a bit of a bore. I mean I'm sure he's perfectly nice and will make some perfectly nice woman a perfectly nice husband, but anyone who gets along with my mama so well is not the man for me. But _him_! Oh, Sybil, what a feast onto the eye! How jealous I am that you get to be his friend. Does he have many faults? I do declare I'd be willing to forgive a person with so obviously pleasing a look any fault whatsoever. Here he comes! Oh, do introduce us properly! And be sure to mention I'll be debuting next year. Do you think he'll come to my ball? Surely, he'll be present at yours. You must allow me one dance with him. Does he dance very well? Surely you can tell me."

Imogen smiled widely as Tom approached and was too intent on making a good first impression to notice how Sybil's brow had furrowed at all her gushing.

"Good afternoon," he said, lifting his hat in greeting.

"Hello, Tom," Sybil said. "This is an old friend, Miss—"

Before Sybil had a chance to continue, Imogen stepped forward and held her hand out. "Miss Imogen Wilkes, daughter of Sir John Wilkes and Lady Priscilla Wilkes, who is herself the daughter of the Duke of Bedford. I've just returned from New York, where my family and I have lived these past few years. I'm so very pleased to meet you. Any friends of Sybil are friends of mine. Were you walking about the fair as we were? I'm so sorry you weren't able to join us for luncheon. I do hope you'll make it to dinner. We'll only be staying at Downton one night and I wouldn't dream of not conversing with you more—and Sybil, of course. Has she told you about me? We were the best of friends as young girls. I do believe the friends one makes in childhood are never forgotten. It was terrible to have to leave, but I do so love New York? Have you ever been?"

Tom had glanced back to Sybil several times during Imogen's long monologue, making Sybil smile wider each time as his bemused expression grew even more so as her friend continued to speak.

"Well, have you?" Imogen asked again.

Tom, realizing now that she had stopped talking and did, in fact, want an answer to this particular question, offered one, "I'm afraid I haven't. Sadly, my travels have been confined between England and Ireland."

"Are you Irish?! Oh, well then you absolutely must come to the States!" Imogen exclaimed, grabbing Tom's free arm and continuing to walk in the direction he had been going, with Sybil falling into step just behind them with a sigh. Hearing her, over Imogen's chatting, Tom turned to look at Sybil and gave her a wink and a smile that made her feel warm inside in spite of Imogen having commandeered his attention.

"None love the Irish so well as the Americans," Imogen went on, "It is a verifiable truth. St. Patrick's Day is practically a holiday in New York. The parade brings everything to a standstill. Papa would never let me attend, of course, but one does hear things. Our cook in New York is Irish. I do wish she'd come with us back to England, but she couldn't on account of her family. I can't imagine our new cook will be nicer than her. Certainly, she won't know how to make my favorite dishes. I shall be skin and bones by the time we go back! Mama will like that, of course, she has always made complaints about my figure, but papa is rather nicer about it. He likes a good strong girl like me. Oh, there's Pratt! I have enjoyed your company Mr. Branson, and I do hope we'll see you at dinner, but I am so anxious to get back to the house. Papa is quite particular, and so am I, about when we take tea, and all this walking has made my feet quite uncomfortable."

And just like that Imogen let go of Tom and hurried back to the motor, across the road from where they had come to on the green.

Turning to Sybil, Tom said with a smile, "She is quite something. Was she always so . . ."

"Effervescent? I'm afraid so. She is very nice, in spite of all her talking, and she supports women's rights." Sybil stopped at this and laughed quietly. "In her own way, anyway."

"It behooves me to say that any friend of yours is a friend of mine, but you would make friends with—"

"The devil himself?" Sybil put in with a smile. "Mary said as much this morning. I suppose being more discriminating would make me a more interesting person."

"I beg to differ," he said leaning in a little to whisper. "Your willingness to give everyone a chance is the thing I love best about you."

Sybil blushed as his use of the words "I love" and "you" in the same breath. Realizing the intimacy of what he'd said in this public a setting, Tom looked down a bit shyly and took a step back. He added, "The world would be a different place if we were all so good as you."

"You're not so bad yourself."

Tom smiled. "Well, I shall do my best emulate your relentless patience and endeavor to be very kind to your friend this evening."

"I'm sure she would like that, but you may do so only as long as you don't give her any ideas," Sybil said.

"Ideas like what?"

"That you like her better than me."

Tom laughed, and Sybil did as well. The two looked over to where Imogen was already seated in the motor. Seeing them turning to her, she perked up and waved her handkerchief at them.

"We'll see you tonight, then?" Sybil asked.

"You will. I have something to give you."

"What could that be?"

"You'll just have to wait," he said with a playful smile.

They said their goodbyes and Sybil turned to head to the motor.

Watching her old friend walk toward her, Imogen smiled. Though Sybil and Tom might not have noticed, she had kept her eye on them the whole time and saw rather easily the attachment between them. Because if Miss Imogen Wilkes was expert at anything other than the latest trends in fashion, it was matters of the heart.

_It is just like lovely demure Sybil not to say she has a beau. _

Imogen thought of how unlike herself Sybil was and how much she had missed her calming influence. She couldn't imagine a better person to share such a milestone as a debut. And, Imogen supposed, if _she_ could not have the attention of someone so handsome as Tom Branson, it was only right that someone as good as Sybil did.

As Sybil stepped into the back seat next to Imogen and sat down, she said, "I hope it was an enjoyable afternoon."

Imogen took Sybil's hand. "Anything is enjoyable in the company of a good friend."

Sybil squeezed her hand back. "How perfectly well said."

"Amongst the multitude pebbles that tumble out of my mouth, every so often one can find a gem."


	23. Chapter 23

_Thanks, again, everyone for reading, favoriting, and following. This chapter picks up the evening of the day we left off. _

_A note I meant to include at the end of the last chapter, regarding Vogue: The reason Martha sends the girls the magazine is that it didn't start printing in the UK until 1916. Les Modes, which is mentioned in this chapter, is a French fashion magazine. _

_OK, enjoy . . ._

* * *

With guests in the house, Carson had Downton Abbey's staff working doubly hard, which meant that Gwen could not come up to dress Sybil for dinner. Instead, Anna came into Sybil's room after she finished with Mary, and Sybil—fearing that her mother might make another surprise appearance to "test" her and not wanting to get another maid in trouble—didn't bother with insisting that she could do it all herself. It wasn't until Anna had left and Sybil moved to sit at her vanity to put on her jewelry that she discovered one of the advantages of dressing herself: Sybil was much less punishing when it came to the tightness of her corset.

Sybil had never enjoyed wearing a corset, but it hadn't been until the last year that she'd started resenting the so-called "need" to do so. Sybil remembered with clarity the first time that she'd worn undergarments with fitted lacings at age thirteen. She had made a bit of a fight of it, of course, but her mother insisted, making all kinds of arguments in the corset's favor, not landing on a winning one until she focused on the idea that it would make Sybil feel more grown up.

When Sybil started dressing herself after the family's move to Downton Place left Anna with insufficient time to see to all of her duties and all three girls, Sybil loved the feeling of purpose doing so gave her, especially at the start of the day. On this night, she understood that dressing herself also gave her _control_. Anna was only doing her duty, of course, so Sybil didn't blame her for the discomfort, but she had heard of lady's maids (O'Brien for one), who were taught to judge their charges if they relented even one little bit on the standards of dress. Sybil had already begun to question whether she would ever want a proper lady's maid, but she had not vocalized the idea, knowing what Robert, Cora and Violet would say and not wanting to have that fight before it was necessary. The very idea that her parents would have any opinion on the subject at all rankled her all the more. Sybil was the daughter of an earl and wealthy beyond the hopes of most in the county, but apparently, even as a woman of her position, her body wasn't entirely her own. It was a startling realization, but Sybil was glad for it. Identifying something that troubled her put her in a position to push back.

Today, she would start by loosening the blasted thing.

Knowing that Anna had gone to Edith next, Sybil walked over to her room. Anna was helping Edith with a necklace when she walked in.

"Golly, my corset's tight, Anna. When you've done that, would you be an angel and loosen it a bit?"

"The start of the slippery slope," Edith said.

Sybil looked over at her sister with annoyance as Anna started work on the buttons of her dress. "I'm not putting on weight."

"It didn't shrink in the drawer."

Sybil roller her eyes, about to respond when Mary came in.

"Are you coming down?" Mary asked.

Without answering her, Sybil went on, "I don't know why we bother with corsets. Men don't wear them and they look perfectly normal in their clothes."

"Not all of them," Mary said, haughtily.

"She's just showing off," Edith said. "She'll be on about the vote in a minute."

Edith's dismissive tone angered Sybil. She checked her temper, but spoke in her own defense just the same. "If you mean, do I think women should have the vote, of course I do."

"I hope you won't chain yourself to the railings and end up being force fed semolina," Edith said.

"What do you think, Anna?" Mary asked.

"I think those women are very brave," Anna said with a smile as she worked to loosen the lacings of Sybil's dress.

"Hear, hear," Sybil cheered, glad that someone in the room was on her side.

Mary rolled her eyes, while Edith snickered.

"You are incorrigible, Sybil," Edith said.

Just as she spoke, there was a light knock on the door.

"Come in," Edith said.

It was Imogen. "Here you all are! And don't you just look lovely."

"What do you make of corsets, Imogen?" Mary asked, pointedly looking Sybil. "Are you, too, a disciple of Sybil's radical thinking?"

"They're devices of torture, of course! Dear Sybil and I have not discussed the topic, I'm afraid, but I declare any woman who claims they are very comfortable to be an unabashed liar. I'd stop wearing one altogether if my mama weren't so dictatorial when it came to such things, and if I weren't such a slave to fashion. It is true, after all, that dresses are built to be worn with corsets. Such a pity, because much as I enjoy bodily comfort, I do like to look my best. But it's only one among the many sacrifices we women must make. When my cousin Elizabeth was with child, she said not having to wear a corset was the most wonderful feeling the world and declared she'd never wear one again, but then the child came and she declared _that_ pain to be worse than a thousand corsets and so happily put it back on when the time came. It made me quite afraid of childbirth. A thousand corsets?! Heavens, what that must be like! I don't suppose I'll be a very good mother, but I certainly won't insist on a corset at age seven as mama did. If nothing else, I hope the designers of tomorrow loosen things up, so to speak."

Anna had finished about halfway through Imogen's chatter, and as Imogen continued to speak, Sybil walked over to Imogen and took her arm. Sybil looked at Mary from the side of her eyes, knowing that Mary had goaded Imogen with the hope that Imogen and Sybil would disagree. "Do you think if more women worked in fashion design, they'd be more likely to leave the corset behind?" Sybil asked Imogen.

"Well, giving credit where it's due, Poiret is already taking some very interesting steps in that direction," Imogen said, winking when she said the name, knowing that he'd helped inspire Sybil's ideas about her new frock. "But are you not familiar with Coco Chanel? She's a wonderful milliner in France. Her hats are simply to die for. And she's just opened her first boutique on the coast. I read in _Les Modes_—father has it brought over from Paris for me—that she's begun to make casual wear for women in _jersey_ fabric, if it can be believed! Who but a woman would have had such a marvelous idea! It's so deliciously soft! It's perfect! Oh, Sybil, she shall be a charter member of our revolutionary club and ensure we are at the cutting edge of modern thought and haute couture! Do you think she supports the vote?"

Sybil grinned and turned to her sisters, "I don't know. What do you two think?"

"I think it's time to go downstairs" Mary said and walked out of the room, with Edith and Anna, who could barely contain her amusement, following behind her.

"Oh, dear, is she very unhappy with me, do you think?" Imogen asked. "Not that it matters, I do not bother myself with people who are always cross. I suppose that's why Mary and I never got on."

"Mary is not usually happy with anyone," Sybil said with a smile.

"Pity, she has such a lovely smile, but never mind that, did we agree on the issue of corsets? I am in suspense!"

"Not on all points for I would never consider myself a slave to fashion, but the important ones."

"Which were what?" Imogen asked.

"The torture, to start with."

Imogen giggled. "Shall we go down, then? I'm rather anxious for dinner. I know mama says eating beyond what is appropriate will make my corset tighter still, but I do enjoy a good meal far too much to concern myself with that. I wonder if I write to _Les Modes_ if they'd write an article on Miss Chanel's political inclinations."

With that, the two girls walked down to dinner.

**XXX**

Upon entrance into the drawing room, Tom was immediately accosted by Imogen, who drew him into a spirited discussion that Sybil watched with amusement from across the room.

Initially, the subject was whether the men of the Liberal Party were particularly fashionable or were perhaps in need of her expert advice on the matter of personal presentation—"Papa would be very pleased to know I'm discussing politics, but perhaps less so that I was not speaking in support of his own cause."

Eventually, it landed on Sybil—"She just such a lovely friend! Don't you think Sybil is lovely?"

When Carson called them into the dining room, Imogen had just broached the subject of new clothes and suggested that Sybil would have something special to show the family soon, if she was allowed to have her way—"Dear Cora is just like mama in that regard. I simply will never understand why we must fight our own mothers to be mistresses of our sartorial fates."

The bulk of the words were, naturally, spoken from Imogen's mouth, but Tom weathered them with his promised patience and by the end of the quarter of an hour he'd sat with her he could discern a measure of the sweet, lively charm that Sybil gave Imogen credit for.

Once the party walked through for dinner, Tom took the position between the chatty Imogen and the always challenging Violet, a pair who so demanded his undivided attention he scarcely had time to eat in going back and forth between them. On the whole, though, dinner was uneventful until it was time for dessert, when Sir John took the first bite and, unfortunately for dear Mrs. Patmore, came upon an unpleasant surprise.

"Oh, Go—God!" He cried out, spitting out the pudding into his napkin immediately.

"What on earth?" Robert exclaimed.

"I do apologize," Sir John said, "but I had a mouthful of salt."

"What?" Cora took a bit of her own dessert, and to her utter dismay and embarrassment, it tasted horrid. "Everyone, put down your forks. Carson, remove this. Bring fruit. Bring cheese. Bring anything to take this taste away. Sir John, I am so sorry."

Imogen, unable to help herself, took her own bite. Her lips puckered in distaste, but she swallowed the bite just the same. "I wouldn't choose to salt vanilla pudding, but I am not entirely opposed to something tart for dessert. Perhaps if there were raspberries."

Mary whose already short patience for Imogen had run dry hours ago couldn't help but want to laugh at the absurdities that continued to spill out of her mouth. She took her napkin and turned to her right and found Matthew, who had turned in her direction to hide his own mirth. Mary held her napkin to her face but looking at Matthew, he could see her squeeze her eyes together and grin widely. It was the first time that he saw a crack in the outer shell that was always—_always_—the very definition of stoic composure. He couldn't think of a time that Mary had ever looked more beautiful. He was not one to laugh at other people's expense, but in this moment, he couldn't help but want to laugh with Mary.

"Fains I be Mrs. Patmore's kitchen maid when the news gets out," Robert said with a smile.

"Poor girl," Sybil said, knowing from Gwen how sensitive Daisy was. "We ought to send in a rescue party."

Cora turned to Lady Priscilla. "Oh, Priscilla, I can't tell how embarrassed I am about all of this. You must think us very disorganised."

"Not at all," she responded with a smile, "These things happen."

"Oh, they do!" Imogen put in. "Our dear footman Anthony once spilled a carafe of red wine onto the lap of the mayor of New York. Mama was mortified and I—"

"Imogen, please!" Her mother interrupted, but after doing so, Priscilla saw that all eyes were on her. She sighed and, with a smile, retold the whole story as Alfred and Thomas passed out the makeshift dessert course that Carson had ordered. Imogen added in much needed details as her mother went along, and the table laughed at each one.

The mood was not quite so jovial downstairs, where, once news of the cooking error spread, the sound of Mrs. Patmore's crying had begun to fill the servants' hall. The cook was sitting, with a small crowd gathered around her.

"Hey, come on. It's not that bad. Nobody's died," Anna said while patting her on the back, trying to offer a bit a comfort.

"I don't understand it," Mrs. Patmore said between sobs. "It must've been that Daisy. She's muddled everything up before."

Daisy's eyes widened in fear. "But I never—"

"Don't worry, Daisy, you're not in the line of fire here," Carson cut her off, already suspecting what had gone wrong.

"I know that pudding," Mrs. Patmore insisted. "I chose it 'cause I knew it."

"Which is why you wouldn't let her ladyship have the pudding she wanted because you didn't know it," Mrs. Hughes said.

"Exactly," Mrs. Patmore replied.

Mrs. Hughes and Carson exchanged glances. They'd both known that something had been ailing the cook and were equally sorry that it had come to a head quite like this.

"I don't see how it happened," Mrs. Patmore continued.

Carson motioned with his head to Bates, who took the cue to clear the room.

"Come on, everyone," he said. "Let's give Mrs Patmore some room to breathe." Seeing Anna lingering, Bates added, "You, too."

"I don't think I should leave her," she said, an expression of concern on her face.

"Yes, you should. Mr. Carson knows what he's doing."

As the rest of the staff moved to leave, Carson pulled up a chair next to Mrs. Patmore and opened the stove next to her.

"Oh, don't do that," she said as he refreshed the coals. "Get Alfred or the hall boy to do it. It's beneath your dignity."

"It won't kill me. Now, all in your own good time." Carson took her hand and with a kindly expression said, "I think you've got something to tell me, haven't you?"

Mrs. Patmore tried to contain her tears, but they wouldn't stop, not with what she was now facing. "I . . . I can't—my vision, Mr. Carson. Well, it's going."

Carson let out a big sigh, hearing the secret finally spoken aloud.

"I could almost manage," Mrs. Patmore continued, "For a long time knowing the kitchen and where everything was kept, even with that fool girl."

"I think you might owe Daisy an apology."

"Maybe. I had a lot to put up with, I can tell you."

"And you've not been to a doctor?"

"I don't need a doctor to tell me I . . . I'm going blind. A blind cook, Mr. Carson. What a joke. Whoever heard of such a thing? A blind cook."

**XXX**

"So what do you have for me?"

Tom turned from where he was leaning over the billiard table and smiled seeing Sybil walk in and close the door behind her. "I don't think you are supposed to be in here."

"And what are you doing here?" She asked coming over to the table.

"I am allergic to cigar smoke."

"You are?"

Tom laughed, leaning his cue stick against the table. "Not actually. It's my excuse not to have to sit with the _gentlemen _after the ladies have left dinner."

"I thought you rather liked talking with papa."

"I do, and we've had some lively discussions in the library and in the drawing room and parlor before and after dinner. I just don't like the practice of excluding women, so if there are men around other than Matthew and myself with whom he can converse I make my escape."

"Does papa know?"

"I'm not sure, but I think he does." Tom smiled and added, "I suppose it's on the list of my terrible character deficiencies he puts up with."

"Your support of women's rights being at the top of that list?" Sybil said, rather proudly.

"The socialism might have that beat, but it's a close second."

They looked at each other across the table, smiling until Sybil broke the stare, looking down at her fingers. "So . . ."

"Oh, right!" Tom took several papers from his inside jacket pocket and handed them over to her. "I brought some pamphlets that I thought might interest you about the vote."

Sybil's eyes widened in delight and she moved to walk around the table. He met her halfway. "Thank you!" She said leafing through the pamphlets excitedly.

He smiled at her eagerness.

Looking back up at him, she opened her mouth to say something but then closed it again.

"What?" He asked.

"Well . . . perhaps we shouldn't mention this to papa or granny. One whiff of reform and she hears the rattle of the guillotine."

"It seems rather unlikely," he said, putting on an air of mock concern, "the daughter of an earl a revolutionary?"

"Maybe," Sybil said, lifting her nose in the air. "But I'm a suffragette, not a revolutionary. And I won't always be merely the daughter of an earl." Her smiled faded and she tilted her head to one side. "At least, I hope that's not the title that defines me my whole life."

"I don't believe it defines you now."

Sybil gave him a grateful smile.

Tom smiled and tilted his head toward the two arm chairs next to the fireplace.

"So will you have your way, do you think, with the frock?" Tom asked as they sat down.

Sybil furrowed her brow at him. "How do you know about that?"

"Imogen hinted that you had something up your sleeve so long as you were allowed to order what you preferred when you go to the dressmaker this week."

Sybil smiled. "We'll have to wait and see—but I hope so. I'm surprised she mentioned that to you."

"Well, then you'll be surprised to know that she spoke to me mostly of you."

"She did?"

"Were you expecting otherwise?"

"I'm not sure what I was expecting to be honest. It's been so long since we've been friends, I had wondered whether we'd find anything around which to relate to one another."

"You said she was a suffragette herself."

"She is a thoroughly modern woman," Sybil said with a smile. "I'm glad that her parents decided to visit us. It will be nice to have someone with whom I can share the season next year."

"Is she in the drawing room with the others?"

"No, she excused herself to go to bed. They left Liverpool quite early this morning and she was very tired. I offered to walk her upstairs. Her desire for company as she changed into her nightclothes will be my excuse when I return and they wonder where I've been."

Tom smiled. "I'm glad you found me here. And that you have rediscovered a good friend."

"You know, one of the best parts of seeing her again has been the memories of myself as a young girl that her presence has evoked. We were always very different, but somehow our differences were always complementary, rather than a cause for strife between us. I expected those differences to have either been magnified or disappeared over the time we were apart, because I expected us to have grown to be different from whom we were as children. But we're the same—that is to say, _I _am the same. I don't mean to say I haven't evolved in my thoughts or ideas, only that the root of the ideas that I hold now were always there. Do you understand?"

Tom chuckled.

"What?"

"You are always asking me if I understand what you mean or if I think something that you've told me makes sense."

"I am?"

He nodded. "The truth is you never need to do that with me. This may be bold, but I believe I understand you better than most."

Sybil looked at him for a long moment. "What makes you believe that so certainly?"

"Because you understand me better than anyone."

Tom held his hand out to her, and she leaned over and took it, interlacing their fingers.

"We should go back," he said quietly, looking at their hands together.

"Do you want to?" She asked in a whisper.

"No, which is how I know we should," he said with a rueful smile.

He stood and helped her up. He had expected her to blush at his words, all he saw in her expression was something that looked to him like confidence.

"I never thought it would feel so . . . empowering," she said.

"What would feel empowering?" He asked.

"If you're not going to say it aloud then I'm not going to either."

They left the room hand in hand and grinning at one another.

**XXX**

Not too long after Tom and Sybil rejoined the party, Lady Priscilla and Sir John made their excuses, and Isobel, Matthew and Tom took their leave as well.

Sybil opened the door to her room feeling as happy as she had in some time. She rang her bell, with the hope that Gwen would be able to come up and began to undress.

A few minutes later Gwen came in quietly with a crestfallen expression that Sybil, too wrapped up in her own excitement, did not immediately notice.

"Oh, Gwen! I'm so happy you're here!"

Sybil crossed the room to her wardrobe and pulled out a woman's suit.

"Imogen said something today about women dressing for success, and as she said it, it occurred to me that you need the perfect suit for your interview."

She pulled out a maroon garment and held it out for Gwen to see.

"Well, I won't be wearing it, milady," Gwen said quietly.

"Of course you will! We have to make you look like a successful professional woman."

Unable to keep her composure, Gwen felt a new onset of tears and sat on the edge of Sybil's bed.

Seeing her distress, Sybil came over and sat next to her. "What is it? What's happened?"

"Well, I won't wear it because I'm not going. They've cancelled the appointment. They've found someone more suited for the post and better qualified."

Sybil's shoulders drooped, but she encouraged her friend just the same. "That's just what's happened _this _time."

"Let's face it," Gwen said, shaking her head. "There will never be anyone less suited for the post or worse qualified than I am."

"That isn't true. You'll see. We're not giving up. No one hits the bull's eye with the first arrow."

"That may be true, milady, but some of us don't have that many arrows to start with."

Sybil took Gwen's hand. "I wish there was something I could say to take away the sting."

"It's all right, milady, I shouldn't burden you with it."

"Don't be silly, Gwen, I'm your friend. I'm the first person you should come to."

Gwen smiled a genuine smile, even through her tears. "Thank you. That does help a bit."

"I'm so glad."

Gwen sighed. "So did you taste the offensive pudding?"

"I'm afraid not. Imogen did. She told me she wanted to be able to describe it exactly when she told the story later—though she did promise to keep Mrs. Patmore's name out of it."

"She was in a state. Do you, um . . . do you think she'll be sacked?"

"Not over this, but mama is concerned for her well being. I don't know what will happen."

"She's a nice lady, if a bit hard on poor Daisy. I guess all that can be done is hope for the best—for her health and her position."

Sybil nodded in agreement. Then, standing up, Gwen gestured for Sybil herself to stand so she could unbutton her dress. Sybil smiled and did so. They continued chatting casually until Sybil was ready for bed. Once Gwen had taken her leave, Sybil settled in to read the pamphlets Tom had given her.

After reading the first sentence of the first one she'd picked up a dozen times, Sybil threw her head back with a laugh.

_The cause will go absolutely nowhere_, she thought, _if any more of the women who support it fall in love_.

**XXX**

**A week later**

"But how could she be wearing _trousers_?"

For the last five minutes Tom had been trying to no avail to describe to his mother what Sybil had been wearing when she'd walked into the drawing room earlier that evening.

"They weren't trousers like I'm wearing," he said, with the smile he'd been wearing since he laid eyes on Sybil as she strode proudly into the room and blithely said, "Good evening, everyone!"

"So what were they like?!"

"They were . . . fluffy, like a skirt, only they were . . ."

"Only they were trousers?"

Tom laid his head on the kitchen table, where they'd been sitting alone since he'd gotten back. "I can't describe them. It's not use, anyway, since I wouldn't be doing them justice if I tried."

Claire smiled at her son. He'd avoided the topic of Lady Sybil since Claire had had the chance to meet her, and for the most part—other than some gentle, motherly teasing—she'd let him. But tonight, since he'd walked in to see her, he'd wanted to talk of nothing else.

When he lifted his head up, the goofy expression of love of his face was enough to bring tears to Claire's eyes.

Seeing them, Tom sat up. "What is it?"

Claire shook her head. "Nothing. So she looked nice, then?"

"Well, acknowledging that she could wear a potato sack and still look beautiful"—Claire took a breath here, to keep herself from rolling her eyes at how far gone he was—"I reckon she's never looked better."

"I can only imagine."

Tom's looked into his mother's eyes with a serious expression and confessed what she already knew. "I'm in love with her."

"You don't say," Claire said, sarcasm plain in her voice.

Tom smiled and looked down at his hands.

"What do you plan to do about it?" She asked. "She's still very young."

"I don't know." He let out a long sigh. "If things were different . . . if I were their chauffeur, say, and I _knew _that they'd be against it, the answer would be easy—I'd ask her to run away with me. But they way thing are? It's not that simple. I like Robert and Cousin Violet, but I know them well enough to know that . . . "

"That what?"

"That they'd hesitate."

"And you need their approval?"

"I can hardly believe I'm saying it, but . . . I _want_ it. And even if I know she'd be prepared not to have it, I think she would too."

Claire sighed. "Well, you've made yourself invaluable to them. Perhaps, if enough time passes, when you do tell them—that you want to marry her, I mean—it will have ceased to matter."

"How much time is that, do you think?"

"She's out next year, correct?"

"Yes."

"At least until then. In the meantime, continue to be her good friend. True love was never harmed by a bit of waiting."


	24. Chapter 24

_Thanks to everyone for all of your nice reviews. I'm so glad that most of you seemed to have liked Imogen. Though she is supposed to come off as flighty and a bit annoying, she does have a good heart._

_This chapter takes place in the last week of May 1913, just before the family (minus Sybil) leaves to go to London for the month of June._

_This chapter gets into Thomas's head for the first time. If you remember, Thomas knows Pamuk wanted to go into the girls' rooms. In this story, he has kept that secret to himself. On the show, he tells O'Brien about Pamuk and Mary and he sends a letter to a valet he knows in London about it, which is how the rumors about Mary start. Why Thomas kept the secret in this version of events and what was going through his mind at the time is addressed here and the Pamuk matter is put to rest for good (I have zero plans to drag it out the way the show did)._

_I'm not sure how people will respond to how I've written Thomas and his interaction with Sybil since I've never written Thomas before and he's not an easy character to like, especially in season one, when he was basically just a villain. I'll have more to say on Thomas on tumblr (probably tomorrow), for those who are interested (magfreak tumblr com, with periods where the spaces are), but I am trying to temper his character a bit and get into the inner turmoil that comes from being closeted at a time homosexuality was illegal. Again, not sure how successful it is, but at the very least, the seed of Thomas's friendship with Sybil during the war is planted here, even though it will be some time before we see it grow_

_Anyway, enough from me. Hope you enjoy!_

* * *

**May 1913, Two weeks later**

"Who's that from, Papa?" Mary asked. "You seem very absorbed."

Robert and the girls were sitting down to breakfast three days before the family would be moving to London for the month to do the season. Both Mary and Edith had come to see it all as a bit routine, but their parents couldn't help but be anxious about the possibility of another summer spent among a set increasingly curious as to why Crawley girls could not settle on husbands. The letter in Robert's hand was not helping matters.

"Your Aunt Rosamund," he said with a serious look on his face.

"Anything interesting?" Edith asked.

"Nothing to trouble you with."

"Poor Aunt Rosamund," Sybil said, coming from the serving table to sit down with her plate. "All alone in that big house. I feel so sorry for her."

"I don't!" Mary said with a wry smile. "All alone with plenty of money and a house in Eton Square? I can't imagine anything better."

His eldest daughter's words, her attitude really, cut to what had been worrying Robert about the month in London, and he couldn't help but react, angrily pushing the letter from one hand to the other. "Really, Mary, I wish you wouldn't talk like that. There will come a day when someone thinks you mean what you say."

But his words rolled off of Mary's shoulders easily. "It can't come soon enough for me," she said looking to Edith, who held Mary's gaze for a moment before looking away to pick up her juice.

It seemed to Edith that Mary, just then, in her complaints about a world that did not take her seriously, had looked to her for . . . _validation_? As if only Edith would understand and commiserate with her feelings. Robert might have reacted to what seemed like snobbery in Mary's words, but Edith was the authority on her sister's superior airs, having been their most consistent target. And what Edith had sensed in Mary in that moment was boredom and disillusionment, two things Edith herself was intimately acquainted with. It was startling to Edith to see Mary so plainly grim about her own future.

After a moment's silence, Robert stood to leave. "Carson, I'll be in the library. Will you let me know when her ladyship is down?"

"Certainly, my lord," Carson replied.

With their father gone, Edith said sardonically, "So you've lost all hope, then? And with the start of the season just around the corner."

"I should take your counsel on impending spinsterhood given how well you know from hopelessness," Mary replied, not bothering to look back at Edith.

"Mary!" Sybil exclaimed.

Mary looked back and forth between her sisters. "Oh, it's just old habit. Edith doesn't mind."

"She's right," Edith said, looking at Sybil with a forced smile. "Why should I when nobody ever minds me?"

Mary put in, "I wasn't inviting you to feel sorry for yourself—"

Edith snorted. "Oh, weren't you!?"

"No!" Mary said. She let out a sigh and continued. "I don't rue Aunt Rosamund's solitude because it is her own. She could marry again if she so desired, but the fact is she wants for neither position, nor security. Why should I not envy her situation when I've grown so tired of the absurdity of having to parade around society I'm not at all interested in keeping. Aren't you tired of it?"

"How could I grow tired of something that has never been about me?" Edith asked pointedly.

Mary rolled her eyes. "So you can dig at me about not being married yet, but I—"

Sybil slammed her fork down on the table, starling even Carson, who was trying desperately to disappear into the wall, not eager to see the girls quarreling like this. "Oh, stop it, will you both? Why does anything have to be a dig at anyone. Can't we just have a conversation?"

Both wide-eyed, Edith and Mary looked from Sybil to one another and, for reasons only those with sisters will understand, immediately set to giggling. Rather puzzled at the sudden change in mood, Sybil nevertheless joined them in laughter.

"Dear Sybil, it's as if you didn't know us," Edith said. "I don't think we're capable of being cordial."

"Not to one another," Mary added. "It's in the laws of nature, don't you know."

Sybil smiled. "If you're saying that nobody understands you two but yourselves, I will agree with that because I certainly don't."

"I do hope you enjoy this summer, darling," Mary said with a smile, "because next year there will be no saving you."

**XXX**

Later that morning, Robert finally found Cora sitting in the garden and sorting through some papers.

"Busy?" He asked as she approached.

"I'm just trying to sort out the wretched arrangements for the London house," she replied.

"I've had a letter from Rosamund," he said.

"Don't tell me," Cora said with a smirk, "she wants a saddle of lamb and all the fruit and vegetables we can muster."

"She enjoys a taste of her old home."

Cora couldn't keep herself from smiling, forcing Robert to acknowledge what he would never say aloud. "She enjoys not paying for food."

"But there's something else," Robert said. "Apparently, the word is going 'round London that Evelyn Napier has given up any thought of Mary, that he's going to marry one of the Sempill girls. She writes as if somehow it reflects badly on Mary."

"Your dear sister's always such a harbinger of joy."

Robert sat down on the bench next to his wife. "The crux of the talk is that Mary has given up on the idea of marriage altogether, which, of course, is leading to ridiculous conjecture. Napier is popular in London, but all thought him lost to their daughters when he visited here. You can only imagine what people said when he left Downton unattached."

"Well, I don't believe Mr. Napier would have supported any such conjecture."

"Neither do I, really, but—"

"She ought to be married. Talk to her."

Robert let out a mirthless laugh. "She never listens to me. If she did, she'd marry Matthew."

"What about Anthony Strallan?"

"Anthony Strallan is at least my age and as dull as paint. I doubt she'd want to sit next to him at dinner, let alone marry him."

"She has to marry someone, Robert. I concede that London gossip bothers me less than it bothers you and your mother, but I also don't want her to hear it and be diminished by it, not when she's been more calm and at peace about her lack of inheritance these last months. The bottom line is, she has to marry soon."

**XXX**

That afternoon, on the stairs that led to the servants' rooms, Thomas was walking up with irritation festering in him.

He'd been careless.

His jaw was set in anger, mostly at himself, though a healthy dose of it was also directed at Bates. Had anyone else caught him in Carson's office, putting the cellar key back on its hook after he'd nicked some wine, he would have shrugged it off and happily enjoyed the bottle without another thought. But no, it had to be Bates.

_Everyone's favorite martyr_, Thomas thought darkly.

In truth, though, Thomas really had no one to blame but himself. It wasn't the first bottle he'd ever taken by a long shot, but he usually took care to do his pilfering when he knew the servants hall to be clear, either early in the morning or late at night. The urge to take it having come in the middle of the day, he should have checked himself and waited to later that night. Or, better, to three days hence, when most of the family would be gone to London and half the staff with them. It was carelessness pure and simple.

Or it was a "death" wish. Every so often Thomas felt rising in him a desire to be caught in some sort of mischief so he'd be dismissed and he'd finally be freed from the shackles of service. He'd have no reference, of course, and no clear path to a new position. But perhaps it would be for the best. Life as a footman was no life at all. Not for someone like him. Best to go on his own terms or be dismissed for something other than the truth, _his_ truth, which would land him behind bars.

Thomas laughed at himself as he stepped into his room, laying himself down on his bed. He knew his bravado was false. He couldn't let himself be caught. He could think about it all he wanted, but the truth was he was scared to leave, and that fear was bigger than hatred toward his job and toward a certain valet. Downton Abbey was many things, but it was not prison.

Months ago, he'd been forced to face that fear head on. His encounter with the now dead Turk made his discovery, for one interminable day, a very real possibility. Seeing the Turk dead the following morning, so deep and intense was Thomas's relief that he practically fainted, dropping the tray he'd been carrying when he saw the man sprawled out on the floor. Only too happy to let go of the worry, Thomas didn't consider until he was in bed that night where and in what state of mind he had left Pamuk when he'd last seen him alive. Thomas didn't know what, if anything, had happened in Lady Sybil's room or Lady Mary's. Like the rest of the family, they were shocked to hear of his death, but neither of the two behaved as if anything outside of the ordinary had happened, certainly not as if the deceased was someone who'd recently shared their beds. Thomas was not naïve. He knew young women of their rank occasionally proved themselves less than virtuous, but he couldn't quite convince himself that that was true in the case of the Crawley daughters.

Lady Mary had spent all day flirting with the Turk, so if Thomas were a betting man, his money would be on her. Still, in Thomas's mind, when it came down to it, Mary's very haughtiness—and what Thomas perceived in her to be a desire to be thought better than everyone else—would have compelled her to keep the man at bay, if only to prove that she was as good as she believed herself to be.

Thomas wasn't sure what to make of Lady Sybil. She was well-loved among the staff for her sweet, forgiving nature, and he knew she'd barely spoken to the Turk, which led Thomas to believe there was no interest on her part. He briefly wondered if the man forced himself on her, but nothing in the family's reactions to his death—certainly not Lady Sybil's—suggested anything of that sort had happened. He might have told O'Brien the next day to see what she thought, but before he had a chance to do so, Carson announced that a new footman would be hired. O'Brien immediately suggested her nephew Alfred and from that moment until Alfred was actually on the premises, he was all O'Brien could speak of. So it was that the Turk and what might or might not have happened in the bedrooms of Lady Mary and Lady Sybil had been, more or less, forgotten.

Thomas stood up from his bed, hid the bottle underneath his mattress and headed back downstairs, trying to push away all thought of leaving Downton—or being caught—from his mind but not succeeding all that well. He'd not made it all the way down the stairs, when he saw Mrs. Hughes coming up.

"Oh, Thomas, there you are. Can you go clear off the tea in the library?"

"And where's young Alfred?" Thomas asked, snippily.

Mrs. Hughes let out an exasperated sigh. "Young Alfred is outside with the hall boys polishing the platters Mr. Carson will be taking to the London house tomorrow. I'll be happy to ask him to clear if you would rather be doing that?"

Thomas rolled his eyes and turned back upstairs. The library was empty when he walked in. After grabbing the tray from one of the side tables, he picked up the first tea cup rather carelessly and the cup slid off the saucer. Before Thomas could react, the cup fell, hitting the table again on its way down and breaking into a handful of small shards.

"Oh, dear!"

Thomas looked up to see Sybil coming toward him. _Perfect_, he thought. "I'm sorry, milady, it just slipped," he said, trying to hold back his frustration.

"Don't apologize, please. It's just a tea cup," she said, bending down with him to help pick up the pieces, setting them on the tray. The gesture took him aback.

"Not sure Mr. Carson will see it that way," Thomas said, with a sigh.

Sybil snickered. "You're likely right. I've learned that not even papa clings to the rules quite like Carson."

Thomas smiled in spite of himself. He was about to say something in response when—just his luck—Carson came in and stopped in his tracks at the door, because, of course, the sight of a lady of the house helping a footman was not at all acceptable.

"What is the meaning of this, Thomas!?"

Before he could begin to answer, though, Thomas saw Sybil reach for the second teacup on the table, which Carson could not see from where he was standing. She intentionally spilled its contents onto her skirt and quickly set it back where it had been. She winked at Thomas and turned before he had a chance to say a word.

"I do apologize, Carson, as this was entirely my fault. I came back for my book and in reaching for it I knocked over my teacup. I'm terribly sorry for my clumsiness, though as you can see I've suffered the consequences." This last she said gesturing to the stain on her skirt.

"That's quite all right, milady, but you don't need to trouble yourself with the cleanup. Thomas can take care of it."

"Oh, I know. He came in just before you did as I was trying to wipe off my skirt. I suppose I should have gotten out of his way," she said turning to Thomas. "Do go on, Thomas. I'll not be a nuisance." Sybil picked up from the sofa the book that she had, in fact, left behind and returned for, and then moved to an armchair on the other side of the room to read, giving Carson a bright smile as she sat down.

Thomas bent back down to pick up what remained of the broken tea cup, and Carson, satisfied that all was well, left the library once again.

Thomas let out a sigh of relief as he left, and looked over at Sybil, her nose already buried in the book.

Once everything was on the tray, Thomas moved toward the door, but hesitated and then with what resolve he could muster walked back to where Sybil was sitting.

"Milady, may I ask why you did that just now?"

Sybil smiled. "I said that it was just a teacup, but when Carson came in, it occurred to me that it's only a teacup if I'm the one who breaks it. If it is broken by you, it becomes something of value that may be held over your head. Seems a bit unfair."

He looked at her for a long moment. "Thank you." He let out a small laugh, then added, "I hope your skirt was not too great a sacrifice to save my skin."

"Thomas, you don't know me very well if you think an object like a skirt means more to me than the feelings of a person."

Thomas was moved by the sentiment, but the whole incident—the way she spoke to Carson, in particular—sparked something else in his mind.

_Lady Sybil is a good liar._

He turned to go, but hesitated for a moment, which did not escape her notice.

"Was there something else?" Sybil asked him.

Thomas turned back to her. "I wonder if I may ask, milady, if you remember the foreign gentleman who stayed in the house last year and came to an untimely end?"

Sybil smiled even as her brow furrowed a bit in puzzlement. "How could anyone forget? I do remember him. Why do you ask?"

He looked at his feet. "I am . . . I was assigned to see to him while he was here and I—well, I found him. He was on the floor in the middle of his room. I don't know if he was coming or going . . . when he died, I mean. If he felt it coming on and was going to get help or if he was, um, coming back from having left his room."

Sybil tilted her head, unsure as to what Thomas was getting at. _Does he know?_ "I can only guess as to what may have been going through his mind," she said, finally.

Thomas shuffled his feet, suddenly wondering why he'd brought it up in the first place. He looked at her again and realized it was because he felt he owed her something. Just moments ago, she had saved him without knowing the extent to which she'd done so, and he felt compelled to apologize for a wrong she did not know he had committed. One worse than everything else put together.

"Well, I hope you weren't, um . . . _harmed_ by the whole affair," he said, a greater measure of shame in his voice than many who knew him would have thought him capable of.

And just like that, seeing him, hearing him, Sybil knew how Pamuk came to know how to find the door to her room and to Mary's. Pamuk, in his behavior in Mary's room, revealed himself to be a bully of the worst kind. _Had he abused Thomas in some way to garner the information?_ She wondered. Her face grew serious.

"I wasn't harmed," she whispered, finally.

Not sure how else to extricate himself from the conversation, Thomas turned to go, but was called back by her voice, a bit louder than before.

"And you?"

"Excuse me, milady?"

"Did he harm you in some way? Threaten you?"

"No harm came to me that I did not bring upon myself. I am sorry for my . . . disloyalty."

His last word startled Sybil. She blinked a few times absorbing what he was trying to say. "It's a job, Thomas, not a pledge of allegiance."

Thomas hesitated. "May I be frank?"

"Please."

"I'm afraid how you describe service is not how Mr. Carson sees it—or much of anyone who works in his position or even in mine. We are called on, not merely to work but to _serve_, which is what I did not do that night. My instincts lean toward self preservation because . . . well, for reasons that I'll not trouble you with, but they make me selfish among the others."

Sybil considered his words for a moment. "Do _you_ consider yourself a selfish person?"

"I think it's all relative. I thought myself to be in danger, and I acted in the way my experience has taught me to do."

"I can't pretend to know what your life has been like, and ultimately nothing happened that's to be regretted, so I'll just thank you for being honest now—at least as far as you've been."

Thomas had been cavalier with her feelings and her future on that night, unwilling to put them ahead of his own, as others might have done. He'd convinced himself that her privilege would protect her, and even now he didn't know that given another chance he'd act differently. But she was more generous than he was. That much he could admit. In a world in which not many people had ever been kind to him, she was now among that precious few.

"I should get on with my duties," he said quietly. "Thank you, again, for . . . well, thank you."

"Thank you for telling me."

"For what it's worth, no one else knows. And that's how it shall remain."

With that, Thomas took his leave, and Sybil picked up her book again. After a few minutes, however, she found she couldn't concentrate on it. She stood and, still holding it, made her way outside, hoping that a walk would clear her mind.

After circling the garden, Sybil found herself walking toward the gate and taking the turn toward her and Tom's favorite spot by the creek. Her talk with Thomas had put her in a contemplative mood. It had been months since she had thought of Mr. Pamuk, Thomas had brought it all back—how Pamuk had invaded her privacy and what he had intended to do. She had not spoken to Mary about it since, and having made the promise with Mary to keep the whole incident secret, she had not spoken of it to anyone else either.

The feeling of empowerment she had felt at having subverted Pamuk's intentions was real, and it made her feel good about herself even now. But, in retrospect, she had to acknowledge that at the time she did not appreciate the danger that she would have been in had Pamuk found her in her room alone. Thomas's admission that he'd put his own interests ahead of hers and led him there had opened her eyes to it. She would have still fought Pamuk. She knew that to be true, and perhaps the outcome might have been the same—his death in his own room after being rebuffed. Sybil also knew that she owed the comfort and security she lived in to the family's army of servants. What she hadn't truly faced until today was the truth that at times of trouble those same people were expected to sacrifice themselves on her behalf. She wasn't sure how to react to that knowledge.

As Sybil approached the rock by the creek where she usually sat, splashing noises brought her out of her reverie and she realized that there was someone else there. Unsure as to who it could be, she moved to hide behind a tree and peeked around it. The sight she saw brought a smile to her face but also a bit of a blush to her cheeks.

It was Tom.

He had removed his shoes and socks and rolled up his trousers up to his knees to wade around in the creek. He also had removed his suit jacket, which he often did when the two met there so Sybil would have something clean to sit on. But that wasn't all. His waistcoat and tie were also off, and his shirtsleeves were rolled up. Finally, the top few buttons of his shirt were undone and a small patch of chest hair was visible where the shirt came open. Other than Pamuk, who had entered Mary's room in his robe that night, Sybil had never seen a man in this state of undress—certainly not one whom she found so attractive.

She watched Tom from where she stood for several minutes. His hands were in his pockets, and he was pacing back-and-forth in the creek. Every few minutes, he would lean down to pick up a rock throw across the water. He was doing just that when Sybil took a step forward to get a better view and stepped on a twig that snapped loudly beneath her feet. Tom turned to see who was there, but did so at such a speed that he lost his footing and quite unceremoniously landed on his rump in the shallow water.

Sybil quickly ran up to the edge of the creek to apologize and help him up but the sight of Tom soaked, sitting in the water looking like a hapless puppy, rendered her quite unable to speak.

Realizing who it was, he began to laugh and Sybil quickly joined him.

"I'm sorry if I startled you," she finally squeaked out.

"I suppose I should consider it payback for all the times I did it to you."

Tom stuck his hand out for her to help him up, and Sybil reached for it, but stopped herself just before she made contact. "Do you really need help or are you going to pull me in in retaliation?"

"Well, I _wasn't_, but it's not a terrible idea now that you've mentioned it."

Sybil crossed her arms in response.

He laughed again. "That was a joke. I won't pull you in, I promise."

"How do I know you're not lying?"

"You're just going to have to take the chance."

Sybil narrowed her eyes at him, but nevertheless, leaned forward and pulled him up. She didn't let his hand go right away and allowed herself the briefest glance down to his chest, which was all but exposed as the wet white shirt clung to him. When her eyes met his again, she could tell he was trying to suppress a grin at her expense. He winked at her and finally let go of her hand and moved away to try to sort himself out.

_Rascal_, she thought, but she smiled just the same, not feeling terribly sorry that she'd caught him like this.

"At least it's a warm day," he said, running his hand through his hair to shake of the excess wetness.

"What are you doing here in the middle of the day? Shouldn't you be working?"

"I had a bit of a trying morning at the office, topped by an argument with one of the partners, so I left early."

"What was the quarrel about?"

"He wanted to ban the secretaries from attending political rallies."

"How disappointing!"

"Well, it's not really surprising. He is a bit conservative, but it was more about how it could look to clients which is absurd because I don't want any client who thinks he has a say over what I or anyone else there think on our own personal time. And nevermind the fact that clients never meet the secretaries or even—" Tom stopped himself short and laughed. "If I continue I'll just get irritated again, but suffice it to say, as I was caught up with my actual work, I decided I take the afternoon to cool off. I'm afraid that after a year working for someone else hasn't gotten easier."

"Do you wish you could establish your own firm again?" Sybil asked.

"I do, but I'd want to do it with Matthew and he wants to wait until we're a bit more established in the community. He's right, of course, but it doesn't make the waiting easier. If nothing else, the partnership does pay well."

Tom looked up to the sky and walked over to a tree where the sunlight was coming through unimpeded. He looked at Sybil for a moment before speaking again. "This is terribly forward of me, but would you mind if I removed my shirt so it can dry?"

Sybil's eyes widened. "Um."

Tom scratched his forehead, a bit embarrassed. "I'll put my waistcoat and jacket back on, but if we're going to talk for a while, I might as well take advantage of the sun."

Sybil smiled and went over to the rock where his things lay and picked them up to hand them to him before sitting down on the rock facing away from him, her book on her lap.

"Did you always want to be a solicitor?" She asked.

"Not really—I should say, when I went to university, I was interested in learning about the law, how it worked and how it affected people's lives. That had more to do with my interest in politics. I didn't have a profession in mind. I suppose Matthew having chosen it was an influence."

"But do you enjoy it?"

"I like helping people," Tom said as he hung his wet shirt on a tree branch. "But there's not much excitement in it, I'm afraid."

Sybil laughed. "It's more excitement than I have."

"Do you wish to work?" He asked watching her back, wishing the circumstances could let him see her face as she answered his question—one that was deeply important to him but that he'd not dared ask before now.

"I do—at least, I wish to be of use. But what could I possibly do without any sort of education or training?"

"You've had an education—it's not a traditional one, but—"

"I've read books, that's all."

"Do you not think there's knowledge in reading books?"

Sybil rolled her eyes and had to check herself so she didn't turn around. "Of course, I do, silly! I mean that other than a bit of help from you, my 'education' as you call it has been guided by my own hand."

"And you've done a good job of it." His voice was right next to her and Sybil turned to see him wearing his jacket and standing just next to the rock, but facing slightly away from her, presumably so she couldn't see what the jacket and waistcoat alone left exposed. The tie, she could see, was hanging on his right shoulder.

He turned his head to look at her and smiled.

"You're biased," she said, unable to repress her own smile.

"Am I?"

"Aren't you?"

He laughed. "I suppose I am. Doesn't make my assessment of your intelligence any less true."

"And that doesn't change the fact that there's no job for me out there."

"You could always go to a training college of some sort."

"Have you met my parents?"

"As a matter fact I have, but it so happens that I have also met you."

Sybil smiled, bashfully. "Well, mine is a long list of grievances. I'm choosing my battles carefully."

Tom laughed again. "That would be a battle, but you shouldn't give it up as lost before you start to fight it."

"I'll keep that in mind."

Sybil watched as he walked over to the edge of the creek again and sank his toes, still bare, into the mud. "May I ask you something personal?" she ventured.

He turned his head toward her again. "Ask away."

"If Dr. Crawley hadn't been so good to you, what do you suppose you would have done? What profession would you have chosen?"

Tom faced the creek again to think about his answer. Sybil mistook his silence for offense.

"Actually, that was a bit impertinent," she said sheepishly. "You don't have to answer."

"Oh, don't worry about that. It's something I think about often, actually."

"Really?"

"Sure. I'm a bit haunted by the question, to be honest."

Sybil's brow furrowed. "Why?"

"As much as I like to think myself the master of my fate, the truth is without Uncle Reg, I couldn't really have gotten this far."

"You don't know that."

"I do, though. In ten lifetimes, my mother would never have been able to afford the education he gave me."

Sybil's shoulders slumped slightly, knowing his words to be essentially true.

"I do believe that it's possible for people to change their circumstances, as Gwen is doing. On my own, years of work might have landed me in the middle class at some point in my life," he continued. "But I got to start there, and that was thanks to him."

"Would that the rest of the world were as generous as he was," Sybil said, silently thanking a man she did not remember meeting for clearing the path that had brought Tom into her life in a way that allowed them to be as close as they were right now.

"Indeed." After a moment, Tom added, "I would've been a chauffeur, I think. To answer your original question."

Sybil closed her eyes trying to imagine him in Pratt's livery. It wasn't an altogether unpleasant picture.

She opened her eyes, hearing him speak up again. "The real question is," he said with cheek she could hear in his voice, "would you and I still be friends if I were your chauffeur instead of an adopted cousin?"

Sybil smiled. "You don't think as highly of me as you say you do if you don't know the answer to that question."

"We would never get to dine together," he said quietly.

She met his gaze and held it for a long moment. "We would have found a way."

Tom looked away, blushing ever so slightly. "Well, to the family's dismay, I likely would have spent my time planning a staff revolt, but I would have been _your_ very faithful servant."

His last words brought back to Sybil's mind her conversation with Thomas. She wanted to tell him, but how would he react?

"Tom?" She began quietly.

"Yes?"

"If I tell you something, will you promise to keep it secret?"

"Of course," he answered.

Sybil took a deep breath. "The Turkish man who was here last year with Mr. Evelyn Napier, do you remember him?"

Tom did remember Pamuk. And he remember the way the man had looked at Sybil, a recollection that filled him with dread as he considered what she could possibly tell him that needed to be kept secret. "I remember," he said, trying to keep his voice even.

She looked down at her hands. "Well, I'm not sure how you'll react to this . . ."

Tom moved as close to her as he could without facing her directly. "What, Sybil?"

She sighed. "Mary wasn't feeling well that night, and I went to check on her after everyone had gone to bed. I can't remember the hour, but it was late. Anyway, he came into her room while I was there."

"WHAT!?" He turned to face her unable to contain his anger.

Sybil stood. "Nothing happened! You can perhaps guess his intentions—"

"Of course, I bloody can! Sybil how can you have kept this a secret?! It was an invasion of the highest order!"

"I know it was, but nothing happened, I swear it! I grabbed a poker from the fireplace as soon he came in and Mary and I fought him off. He left after he realized he wouldn't get what he wanted and then, well, he died."

Tom started pacing in an effort to release the angry energy building inside him. "How could you not tell anyone? How could you not tell _me_?"

"He died. What would it have accomplished, except perhaps trouble and shame for Mr. Napier? Mary wanted to put the whole thing behind her, and I didn't really have reason to disagree."

Tom stopped his pacing and leaned against a tree in frustration. He looked over at her with concern in his face. "Did he hurt you in any way?"

Sybil smiled sadly and shook her head. "But I should add, um . . ."

"Add what?" He asked, his brow furrowing again.

"He came into my room first. He came to Mary's because I wasn't there."

Sybil saw Tom clench his fists, and before she could stop him, he turned and rammed his left fist into the tree. He pulled his hand back in pain quickly, but he did not regret the release the pain offered. Dropping her book on the ground, Sybil ran over to him and took his now bloody hand into his. She shot an annoyed glare and him and pulled him over to the creek.

"That was a stupid thing to do," she said, pulling him down to the water and gently wiping off the blood with the hem of her skirt.

They remained quiet for a moment while she saw to his cuts. Eventually, she said, "Aren't you the one always telling me how brave I am, how I can take care of myself?"

"Yes, but Sybil—"

"I _was_ brave. I _felt_ brave. I can hardly believe it now, but I—we, Mary and I—stood up to him. He didn't hurt us."

"I'm sorry I wasn't there to see it," he said, finally cracking a smile.

Sybil smiled back. "I know it could have turned out very differently, but it didn't."

"I'm sorry about losing my temper, but I'm not sorry that I find it hard not to worry about you."

Sybil stood, pulling him up with her. "I do appreciate that, but you're the one who's a bit of a mess right now."

"I've been a mess since I met you."

Sybil looked down to hide her blush, and seeing his injured hand again, she bent down to kiss it.

"Thank you, Nurse Crawley," he said smiling widely now.

She sighed. "If only."

Quietly, Sybil went to pick up her discarded book and Tom walked over to where his shirt was hanging. Sybil turned away again so he could put it and his socks and shoes back on. A few minutes later, they emerged from the woods and stopped at the path that led her back to the house and him back to the village. They said their goodbyes and turned toward their respective destinations. Tom hadn't walked more than ten feet when he turned and called out to her.

"Sybil?"

She turned toward him.

"Why did you tell me?"

She smiled. "Because I tell you everything."

She waved and then started toward the house again.


	25. Chapter 25

_Thank you, everyone, as always for your support and reviews. This chapter captures Sybil's last "summer of freedom" so to speak. Next chapter, when the family comes back from London, some big things will happen so if the story feels a little bit too happy now, JUST WAIT! ;)_

_Enjoy!_

* * *

**June 1913**

Since her sisters had started doing the season in London, Sybil couldn't remember a more enjoyable summer. The end of June was already approaching too quickly for her liking. She missed her family, but she secretly acknowledged to herself that if they chose to stay away another month she wouldn't be terribly disappointed. Sybil knew this would be the last summer of its kind for her. She would be eighteen in the fall and would soon come to face the pressures that she could already see weighing on Edith and Mary. But this June she remained relatively unencumbered and free from the trappings and expectations of her title and position. She wanted to cherish every moment.

With her parents and sisters gone, Sybil was the lone family member sleeping in the house. But with plenty of the staff having stayed behind with her and Violet and the Reginald Crawleys still in the village, solitude was actually rather rare. Separately and together, Violet and Isobel occasionally took her on their regular visits to the hospital, amusing Sybil with their constant bickering about how to run the facility over which they both presided. She and Tom continued to meet at their spot in the woods to talk about books and politics and whatever happened to be on their minds. On several especially hot days, they removed their shoes and waded in the creek together, and though they sometimes allowed themselves to hold hands while doing so—a need for better balance on the slippery rocks being the excuse—they never again got close to the state of undress Sybil had seen Tom in that May day she had caught him there alone.

Even Matthew had helped make the summer memorable by taking an afternoon to show Sybil how to ride a bicycle with a used woman's model he and Tom bought for her from a client at the partnership who sold them for a living. The bicycle allowed Sybil to go into the village more quickly and more often, as well as explore the roads surrounding the estate, without her having to bother Lynch or change into her riding clothes. As one would expect, Violet initially questioned the propriety of a lady on such an "odd device," but she came to look forward Sybil's more frequent, often unannounced visits. Violet also enjoyed seeing the obvious delight this new freedom brought her free-spirited granddaughter—no matter how much a stickler for rules and tradition she herself remained. Now in what she knew to be the twilight of her life, Violet could not deny that she had begun, in spite of herself, to put feelings ahead of correctness when she did and said certain things.

But the memories of the summer of 1913 that Sybil, in her own late years, would look back on most fondly were those of her visits with Claire.

Knowing Saturdays to be the day Isobel spent volunteering at the hospital, leaving the Crawley House staff with some time to themselves, Sybil came by unannounced on the first Saturday in June to fulfill her promise to Tom's mother of another visit. By coincidence, Tom happened to be out of the house again when Sybil came. This time, although Claire was still surprised to see her, instead of eyeing the young woman warily, Claire welcomed Sybil into the house happily. As before, they sat down in the kitchen and talked over a cup of tea. When Tom came home, upon hearing Sybil's voice coming from the kitchen, instead of interrupting them, he retreated to the parlor to read. Having come to terms with the fact that he loved Sybil and hoped to marry her someday, admitting as much to his mother, Tom very much wanted Claire to love her too. Sybil, he figured, could make her own case to Claire better than he could.

In their conversations, Sybil and Claire talked about Tom, naturally, but they also talked about Claire's childhood on a tenant farm near Galway, about her life as a young working woman in Dublin before Tom was born, about his father, Colin, and about Claire's decision to cross the Irish sea when Colin's sudden death left her a young widow. They talked about what it was like for Sybil growing up in such a big house, about her American roots, about her interest in books and the suffrage movement and about her scheme to help Gwen find a job as a secretary. Claire remained unsure as to whether someone brought up in the aristocracy could adapt to the simple life Tom had always wanted, but she could easily see why her son was so taken with the sweet and thoughtful young woman. On the following Saturday, knowing Sybil would return, Tom found a reason to be away from the house to leave them to themselves once again.

As the end of the third week of June neared, Sybil had not only another Saturday with Claire to look forward to, but also Tom's birthday, which was on the Friday before. And if that wasn't enough, when Sybil sat down to breakfast on Thursday, Thomas handed her a letter that gave her even more for which to hope. Seeing the address on the envelope, Sybil took her knife to open it immediately. Its contents filled her with joy in a way few other things in her life at that moment had the power to do.

_Dear Lady Sybil Crawley,_

_We are grateful for your reference and recommendation concerning Miss Dawson, who is currently working in your service at Downton Abbey._

_Please will you convey to Miss Dawson that we would be happy to receive her for an interview at these premises on Friday, June 20th at 1 o'clock. _

_I have the honor to remain your lady's obedient servant,_

_A. Jenkins_

Barely able to contain herself, Sybil ate as quickly as she could. Once finished, she grabbed the letter and went in search of Gwen, finding her in Sybil's own room, making up the bed.

"Gwen! I have news!" Sybil ran in, pushing the letter into Gwen's hands. Puzzled as to who would be writing Sybil that Gwen would even know, Gwen opened the letter and read it over. Her eyes blinked a few times in disbelief, and she read the contents again. And again. Someone wanted to interview her. Gwen's eyes widened and looked back to Sybil.

"I saw another opening for a secretary and I applied," Sybil said eagerly, answering Gwen's question before the young maid even had a chance to ask it.

"But you never said."

Indeed, the topic of Gwen's job search had gone undiscussed, at least between them, for some time.

"I didn't want you to be disappointed," Sybil replied.

"I thought you'd given up," Gwen said, smiling and realizing once again how faithful Sybil was to Gwen's cause.

"I'll never give up, and nor will you. Things are changing for women, Gwen. Not just the vote, but our lives."

"But it's tomorrow at one o'clock. Last time, we waited for weeks and weeks and—and this one's tomorrow."

Sybil grinned. "Then we must be ready by tomorrow, mustn't we?"

**XXX**

The following day, having arranged for Lynch to prepare the governess cart for her, Sybil met Gwen halfway down the road to the village just after luncheon. In making their plans the night before, Gwen told Sybil that she would have to fake an illness in order to get away for the day. Sybil had offered to talk with Mrs. Hughes, assuming that with most of the family gone and some of the staff gone with them, those who remained would have little to do. But Gwen wouldn't let her. Gwen remained, it seemed to Sybil, uncomfortable broaching the topic of her desire to leave service with her coworkers—her supervisor in particular.

"But I know Mrs. Hughes to be an understanding woman," Sybil had said. "Surely, she can see how important this is to you."

But Gwen was resolute. She didn't want the other staff to feel like she was getting special treatment, and she didn't dare ask for permission on her own and risk Mrs. Hughes saying no. Gwen was determined to attend the interview, and she prefered doing so by taking the chance of being discovered and having to answer for her actions after the fact, than by having to go against Mrs. Hughes's director orders after being told she couldn't go. If she was discovered under the former circumstances, she could plead her case more easily than if she were discovered under the latter, which would surely result in her sacking. Explained in those terms, Sybil understood her friend's predicament and agreed.

Seeing Gwen as the cart approached their designated meeting place, Sybil pulled on the reins to slow Dragon. Gwen smiled anxiously and climbed on.

"You look very smart!" Sybil said smiling brightly.

"Well, I had to let the skirt down a little, but I can put it back," Gwen responded, looking down at the borrowed suit.

"No, it's yours!" Sybil said.

With Gwen settled, Sybil clucked her tongue and the horse started them on their way.

"What will happen if one of the maids finds your room is empty?" Sybil asked.

"With Anna away with the family, I have the room to myself. The only risk would be if Mrs. Hughes comes to check on me. But I'd rather not think about that possibility until we're making our way back. One hurdle at a time."

Sybil smiled. "Are you feeling nervous?"

"A bit. I suppose it helps that I'm not entirely sure what I'm in for."

"I'm sure Tom prepared you the best he could, which means you will do splendidly."

"Certainly, I'll do better than if he hadn't helped."

"What advice did he give you?"

"To be as natural and confident as possible, to give myself time to think before I answer any question, not to ramble on too long with any one answer and to ask questions myself about the post and the pay and such things."

"I'm sure you will do just fine."

"I hope so, though I can't help wishing it had worked out for me a bit like it did for William."

"What do you mean?" Sybil asked.

"Well, when he came back to the house for the servants' ball, he said Mr. Branson and Mr. Crawley came to speak with him and his father when they were just taking over the running of the estate from his lordship, and then just like that they came back and offered him the job as estate agent that same morning. So he had an interview, even though he didn't realize that's what it was as it was happening."

Sybil laughed. "That does seem rather fortunate, but think of it this way, you are not merely waiting for the universe to offer up something. As a strong, independent woman, you're taking matters into your own hands."

Gwen laughed. "I believe, milady, that my fate being in own hands is precisely what scares me!"

The two rode in silence for a few minutes before Gwen ventured a question on a different topic to lighten the mood. "Is it really Mr. Branson's birthday today? I overheard Mrs. Patmore talking about the preparations for dinner in his honor this evening."

"It is his birthday. He'll be twenty-four. Granny asked that we have a special dinner at the house, but tomorrow he and I—" Sybil stopped short. Having momentarily forgotten that Gwen didn't know who Tom's mother was, Sybil was about to say, "He and I are taking his mother on a picnic."

Gwen smiled. "He and you will do what?"

Sybil was at a bit of a loss as to how to cover up her near-blunder. "He and I . . . that is, I'm not giving him his gift until tomorrow."

"And what have you chosen to give him, if I may ask?"

"Oh, just a book."

Gwen mistook Sybil's caginess for a desire to hide the fact that she had feelings for Tom, something that had been plainly obvious to Gwen for some time. She knew that Sybil would have been brought up to be demure and not speak of such things, but she also knew Sybil to be someone who did not like to keep her feelings about anything bottled up, having lamented to Gwen how doing so had affected her sisters when it came to the affection of the late Mr. Patrick Crawley. Gwen understood this situation to be different from that one because Sybil had no competition for Tom's attentions that Gwen could see, his affection for Sybil being just as plain to Gwen as Sybil's for him.

Still, given how generous Sybil had been with her, Gwen decided to offer herself as someone who would be there to listen.

"Lady Sybil?" Gwen began, looking ever forward, not wanting to embarrass Sybil or herself.

"Yes?"

"I, well . . . I want you to know that if you ever needed anyone to confide in regarding, um, well, your friendship with Mr. Branson. I don't pretend to know much about the matters of the heart, but . . . I'm here for you, is what I'm saying. If you need someone, that is."

Gwen ventured a peek over at Sybil, whose smiling face was a deep shade of red.

"Is it terribly obvious?" Sybil asked.

"That you like him? I wouldn't say so—at least not to people who may not know you so well as I do."

"You do know me, Gwen, so you have my permission to dispense with the word _like_. I do believe I left _like_ behind quite some time ago."

**XXX**

Much later that day, after Gwen had completed the interview, she and Sybil ran into horse trouble that delayed their return to the house considerably. News that was not taken especially well by Tom when Mrs. Hughes delivered it not too long before dinner was to be served.

"A dozen people in this house and it's not enough to look after one seventeen-year-old?"

Isobel and Matthew exchanged weary glances as Tom paced the floor of the library, where Thomas had escorted him, Isobel, Matthew and Violet upon their arrival for dinner so Mrs. Hughes could alert them to the fact that Lady Sybil had not returned from an errand since leaving on the governess cart early that afternoon.

"Oh, Tom, sit down for heaven's sake," Violet said. "You're making us all dizzy."

He sighed and took a seat next to Violet on the sofa. "I'm worried, that's all. It's not like her to be gone this late without telling anyone."

"I am sorry for not realizing until so late an hour that she was unaccounted for," Mrs. Hughes said. "But Mr. Lynch said he was confident about her abilities with the horse, so he did not see the need to alert me as to her departure when I asked him if he knew of her whereabouts after she did not ring for tea."

"I apologize for my outburst, Mrs. Hughes," Tom said contritely. "I know it isn't your fault."

"Don't trouble yourself, Mrs. Hughes, I've no doubt this is a folly of Lady Sybil's own making," Violet said. "And decades hence, when Tom's daughter is of the age my granddaughter is now, he'll have full knowledge of the fact that an entire army regiment does not suffice to keep a girl of her spirit in line."

Tom smiled. "You don't give parenthood a positive endorsement."

"I won't deny that it is trying—and tiring. The on and onness of it."

"Were you a very involved mother with Robert and Rosamund?" Isobel asked, a tone of surprise in her voice.

"Does it surprise you?" Violet asked pursing her lips.

"A bit," Isobel admitted. "I'd imagined them surrounded by nannies and governesses, being starched and ironed to spend one hour with you after tea."

Tom couldn't help but smile, feeling Violet tense next to him, and imagining that what Isobel had just described was precisely what Violet considered thorough parental involvement.

"Yes," Violet said, eventually. "But it was an hour every day."

Isobel's eyes widened. "I see, yes. How—"

But before Isobel could say anything else, Matthew cut in. "Please, mother, haven't you two had enough bickering for today, between cornering Dr. Clarkson and diagnosing poor old Moseley?" Matthew asked, unable to hide his smirk.

"There was no bickering over Moseley," Violet said, as if affronted. "Isobel made a diagnosis of erysipelas and I corrected her."

"You made a lucky guess," Isobel said, narrowing her eyes. "And anyway, we won't know whether the rash on Moseley's hands really is a rue allergy as you believe until he's been away from the garden for at least a week."

"I'm happy to wait since I'll be as right then as I am now," was Violet's retort.

Matthew chuckled and rolled his eyes. Turning back to Mrs. Hughes, Matthew asked, "Does Lynch know anything about where Lady Sybil went?"

"He said she mentioned something about popping in on old Mrs. Steward."

"Well, if that's the case, it's Moulton she's gone to," Violet said. "Though why she'd bother going to visit that old bat is a mystery."

Tom stood again. "I don't blame you, Mrs. Hughes, truly, but Lynch should have known better than to let her take the cart and risk the traffic. With so many automobiles out and about now, the roads are a positive mess. The cart is probably stuck in the mud somewhere between here and there. I'll go get the motor and fetch her myself."

But the very moment he turned to go, Sybil entered, hat and hair askew and two inches of mud on her skirt. "I'm so very sorry to be late and to have worried everyone!"

As Tom's shoulders sank in relief at seeing her, Sybil smiled. Having heard the last of what he'd said, she very much wished that he—or anyone really—had somehow known to come to her and Gwen's rescue sooner.

"What happened, my dear?" Isobel asked.

Sybil gave her hat and coat to Mrs. Hughes, who couldn't help but smile and shake her head as she left the room. "Dragon cast a shoe and we couldn't find a blacksmith who could help. Then my temper got the better of me and I spooked him, and he ran away from us."

"Us?" Matthew asked.

Sybil looked around the room, and seeing that there were no servants present any longer, answered honestly and quietly. "I was taking Gwen to a job interview."

Violet stomped the floor with her cane. "See what mischief comes from this job nonsense."

"It was just bad luck, granny," Sybil said.

"In that case, I hope the disaster happened on the way back, rather than on the way there," Tom said.

"It was on the way back," Sybil replied. "At least on the score of delivering her to the interview, the errand was successful. I really am sorry. I'll go change now and be ready as quickly as I can."

Before going, though, she stepped up to Tom and meekly said, "I hope I haven't ruined your birthday."

He smiled. "On the contrary, if Gwen gets the job, I'll be happy to know it all began on this day."

Sybil made her excuses again and went upstairs to change.

"That child is incorrigible," Violet said with a sigh, as Tom sat back down next to her.

"Would you want her any other way?" Tom asked jokingly.

Violet looked at Tom from the side of her eyes. "I suppose you wouldn't."

Surprised at what she was suggesting and how openly she had done so, Tom turned to try to look Violet in the face, but only saw her usual pursed-lipped expression directed at no one in particular—as if she'd said nothing at all. After a moment, Violet did turn to face him but acted as if she were startled to catch him looking at her.

"What is it?" She asked airily.

Tom smiled to himself, turning back to the room. "Nothing."

**XXX**

While Sybil had been explaining the mishap to her family, Gwen was sneaking back into her room. Once inside, confident she had not been detected coming in, she sank into her bed without bothering to remove her hat or shoes. After a moment's rest, she sat back up to take off her boots, when she heard her door open.

It was Mrs. Hughes, and by the look of it, she was not at all surprised not to see Gwen laid up in bed, as sick as she had claimed to be that morning. Gwen stood and took off her hat, not sure whether there was anything she could say at having been caught red-handed.

Mrs. Hughes raised her eyebrows, as if amused. She didn't know where Gwen had been but her suspicions that she'd gone with Sybil seemed to have been proven true.

"You look done in," Mrs. Hughes said finally. "I'll bring you some food up later when we've finished dinner. Where were you?"

"You came up, then?" Gwen asked, tentatively.

" 'Course I did. When I realized Lady Sybil was missing, I knew there would be only one person in the house who might know where she'd gone. But then I came to look for you and _you_ were gone. So I could only guess that you were with her."

"I'm so very sorry, Mrs. Hughes."

"I don't suppose this had anything to do with Lady Sybil's efforts to make you a secretary?"

Gwen looked down and nodded, tears about to slip from her eyes, fearing the worst. But Mrs. Hughes' next question was not what Gwen was expecting.

"Did you get the job?"

Gwen's head jerked up and intense relief flooded through her as she saw Mrs. Hughes smile with forgiveness.

"Well, we'll have to wait and see."

Mrs. Hughes stepped closer to Gwen and motioned for her to sit on the bed. Mrs. Hughes pulled the chair from the nearby desk and sat down in front of Gwen.

"Gwen, I think what you are doing is to be admired. I know you are afraid to discuss it for fear of the judgment it might bring on you for aspiring higher than your current station, but I have no objection to that. I do, however, have an objection to lying and to taking advantage. Lady Sybil is a sweet, kind person and I don't doubt that she cares for your very much, but you remain an employee of her parents, and while that is the case, you need to take care that your friendship with her does not interfere with your duties. There are rules to this kind of life and while you remain here with us you must abide them. Lady Sybil, I believe, understands what those rules are, but even so, the burden of walking the line and the consequences of not doing so fall to you alone. That is our lot. Am I being understood?"

Gwen nodded. "Yes, Mrs. Hughes."

"Now, if you aren't given the position you sought today, I can only imagine there will be others. I hope that from now on, you feel comfortable coming to me about taking time to see to interviews and the like."

"I will Mrs. Hughes, and I'll work twice as hard tomorrow to make up for my absence today, I promise."

"Nevermind that," Mrs. Hughes said standing up. "Get yourself cleaned up and I'll bring you a tray in later."

"I can come down and get it for myself, Mrs. Hughes, it's no bother."

"Oh, no. Far as everyone else downstairs is concerned you are ill today. I'm the only one who knows of your mischief, and I'll not have you give the game away now and let the other girls think they can get away with such things too."

Gwen smiled sheepishly. "Thank you, Mrs. Hughes. I don't know what we would all do without you."

Mrs. Hughes sighed. "You'd get along fine, I suppose."

**XXX**

Despite Sybil's tardiness, Tom's birthday dinner at Downton Abbey was a lively and entertaining affair that went late into the night. But the late hour at which she went to bed, did not stop Sybil from waking up early the following morning, anxious for the more private celebration she would be participating in today. Just after one of the maids had come in to open the curtains, Sybil was up and dressing herself. After breakfast, she told Mrs. Hughes she would be at Crawley House for luncheon and proceeded to spend the morning in the library writing in her journal. She went back up to her room just before it was time to leave to finish getting ready when Gwen stepped in with a long look on her face.

Sybil wondered momentarily if the physical exertion of the afternoon before had made her work more difficult this morning.

"Have you not recovered from our ordeal?" Sybil asked with concern.

Gwen shrugged. "I'm all right as far as that goes, I suppose."

"Is it something else, then? You look rather upset."

Gwen sighed. "Well, I got a letter this morning. They must've written it as soon as I left the office. They are pleased to have met me, but I do not quite fit their requirements. So, it was all for nothing."

Sybil stood from where she had been sitting in her vanity and quickly walked over to Gwen. "I don't agree. You can't give up now, Gwen. It was only one interview—your first. There will be others."

"Only a fool doesn't know when they've been beaten."

"Then I'm a fool for I'm a long way from being beaten yet."

Gwen let out a humorless laugh, but Sybil persisted.

"This isn't the end. You mustn't give up. We'll get there."

Gwen rolled her eyes and stepped away from Sybil. "Forgive me, my lady, but you don't get it. You're brought up to think it's all within your grasp, that if you want something enough it will come to you. Well, we're not like that. We don't think our dreams are bound to come true, because . . . because they almost never do.

Sybil walked around Gwen to look her in the eye again. "Then that's why we must stick together. Your dream is my dream now, and I'll make it come true."

"I appreciate all you've done milady, I do, but perhaps it's best if I gave up now. You're nice to encourage me, but I'm not sure I have the heart for the rejections I'm sure to face."

"But Gwen, don't you see, a hundred rejections won't make the offer of a job any less real when it happens."

"I certainly couldn't take being rejected one hundred times," Gwen said with a sad smile.

Sybil pulled her over to the bed and they sat on the edge. "May I ask you what made you want to be a secretary? Do you absolutely hate being a maid?"

Gwen laughed. "No, I don't. I think what I liked about training to be a secretary was the idea that I could help someone, like a solicitor or a salesman, and learn about new things. Maid's work is fine. Not easy on the hands sometimes, but it's not . . . very _interesting_. Not to me anyway. Anna rather likes doing hair and helping Lady Mary pick out clothes that will suit her, and she's good at it. I am able to help you because you pay less attention to such things, but if I were to care for Lady Mary, I do believe she'd think I was rubbish."

Sybil smiled. "I admit she and Anna are very well suited to one another in that regard. But I do think women should be allowed to choose professions that suit them."

"Do you see, though, that the choice is not always with _us_?" Gwen asked carefully, not wanting to insult Sybil, but nevertheless needing her to understand that being a maid might be all that was available to Gwen.

Sybil sighed. "I do, and if I could give you some of my advantages, so that perhaps we could met in the middle, I'd like nothing more. But, Gwen, the world _is_ changing. That cannot be denied. Perhaps not now, but in some not so distant future, the demand for secretaries will be such that you will have the opportunity we both so dearly want for you. I'm not asking that you keep fighting right now if you must take a break, only that you don't give up hope entirely—at least not while you're still so young."

Gwen smirked. "How can you act the sage when you're younger than I am?"

Sybil laughed. "I am wise beyond my years."

Gwen stood and smoothed out her skirt. "I should get back to my duties, and you have an outing to get to."

"I won't leave until I'm sure you're feeling better," Sybil said firmly.

"I am. Thank you."

Sybil stood, smiling reflectively and she watcher her friend go. She couldn't let Gwen lose hope. She desperately wanted her friend to be happy, but Sybil also wanted to believe that the change she wanted to see in the world truly was possible.

**XXX**

Tom and Claire met Sybil at a small, quiet park just outside the village, just off the road that led to Ripon. Claire packed a veritable feast with all of Tom's favorite foods, including apple barley pudding, which Sybil had never tasted before but loved immediately. They also talked about world affairs, including the possibility of Irish Home Rule and the bill to that effect that Parliament had rejected earlier that year.

Claire shared the story of how Tom was born in the back pew of St. Thomas's Church on Marlborough Street in Dublin, Claire stubbornly refusing to leave after suddenly realizing that he was coming in the middle of early Sunday mass—which Colin had insisted they attend despite her complaints of what she had believed then to be only back pain. "I'd wanted to name him Aedan after my da, but Colin's view was God had given us his name, and we had no choice," she recounted, making Sybil laugh and Tom blush.

Tom had brought along a kite, which he and Sybil tried for a good while to heave into the air, occasionally falling into squabbles, to Claire's amusement, about the best way to do so in such meager winds. Finally, they gave up, sat back down on their blanket and took turns reading aloud from Maria Edgewordth's novel, Castle Rackrent, with Claire interrupting here and there with commentary on how well (or not so well) the writer had captured life in Irish tenancy.

It was almost tea time when Sybil reluctantly said her goodbyes, not wanting to worry Mrs. Hughes about her whereabouts for the second day running. As she rode her bicycle back to the house, Sybil felt her hat shift on her head from the wind. Without stopping, she carefully let go one hand from the handlebars and pulled it off her head. Having noticed that the bicycle remained balanced, Sybil smiled and, feeling daring and adventurous, took the other hand off.

Pedaling faster and faster, her arms spread out like a bird's wings and the wind blowing against her face, Sybil looked up to the sky and wondered if the God she only occasionally looked to would ever in her life give her another moment in which she felt so loved, so happy and so free.


	26. Chapter 26

_I'll be interested to see how many of you saw this one coming ;)_

_By the way, you may have noticed that I've taken some of the action that happens in series one, episode seven, which takes place in July 1914, and moved it up to 1913 in an effort to spread things out and even out the pacing of the story. The rest of what happens in that episode—such as the fallout of the count in May, Cora's surprise pregnancy, Matthew's proposal, and Strallan and Edith—will happen on the show's original timeline._

_This episode feels a bit plodding because I needed to set a few things up for future chapters, I wanted to start the Mary/Matthew train rolling a bit more steadily and I wanted to build the drama toward the last scene. Hope it reads smoothly. Let me know what you think!_

* * *

**July 1913**

"Are you really going to have a telephone at Crawley House?" Sybil asked Matthew excitedly.

"It's being installed this week," responded Matthew, who was sitting at the desk in the library. "They're in regular use now at the partnership, and they've asked that all the solicitors put them in at home as well."

"How marvelous!" Sybil said from her spot in the armchair next to the window. Her embroidery was at her feet, long forgotten.

The two of them, along with Tom, who was browsing the section on history near where Sybil was sitting, had been chatting for the last half-hour as they waited for the family to arrive home from the train station.

"Do you think papa will ever have one here?" Sybil asked after a moment's reflection.

"I'm going to suggest it to him this afternoon," Matthew said.

"Any thought as to whether he'll be open to it?" Tom asked Sybil.

"I'm not sure," she said. "He accepted putting lights in the house with some reluctance. I don't know whether he'd like the idea of just anyone calling whenever they like."

"I can only imagine Cousin Violet's opinion on the matter," Tom said with an impish grin on his face.

"I'd give anything to be in her presence when she hears it ring for the first time," Sybil said. "Or to see her trying to use it at all."

Tom laughed.

"Poor granny," Sybil said. "She dreads modernity so dreadfully. I, on the other hand, find the idea of hearing the voice of someone who is far away rather magical."

"Have you seen one in use before?" Matthew asked.

"Just once in the post office. Mr. Thornton was using it as I walked in, and once he was finished, he showed me how it worked."

"There's a message from the train station, sir," Carson said, stepping into the room addressing Matthew.

"Is there a problem?" Matthew asked.

"The 10 o'clock train apparently is running late this morning and it will be another quarter of an hour before its arrival at the station," the butler responded.

"Thank you for the update," Matthew said.

"Shall I have Alfred bring in tea?" Carson asked.

Matthew looked over to Tom, who shrugged noncommittally, and Sybil, who said, "Yes, for me." Matthew turned back to Carson. "For all of us, Carson, thank you."

"Very good, sir."

After he had gone, Sybil leaned over her chair toward Tom. "And what do you think Carson would do with a telephone in the house?" She asked playfully.

Tom smiled. "I don't know, but I can only assume he would do it with the utmost dignity."

Sybil laughed and picked up her embroidery again.

**XXX**

A short while later, in another part of the house, Mrs. Hughes was walking through the family's rooms to make sure they had been done up properly for their return.

She saw Gwen coming out of Edith's room and, peeking inside, saw that another maid was still in the room polishing the biscuit jar.

"Hurry up, girls, come on," she called out with a stern expression on her face. "You should be done here. They'll be back from the station any second now."

Mrs. Hughes stepped in once the room was empty, and seeing everything in its place, she headed back downstairs satisfied that the house was finally ready. At the bottom of the stairs into the servants hall, she met Carson, who was crossing the hall toward the butler's pantry, having just come from the kitchen.

"There was a bit of a delay with the train," he said. "Mrs. Patmore is making up tea for Lady Sybil and the young gentlemen in the library."

"Well, the girls finished upstairs, so it's just a matter of the family getting in now," Mrs. Hughes said. "With all the preparations this morning, I haven't had a chance to ask, how was London?"

"Oh, much as usual. Dirty, noisy, quite enjoyable."

"There was no need for you to come back a day early. I'm perfectly capable of getting the house ready."

"Of course you are," he answered with a smile, "but I like to have the heavy luggage back and unpacked before they get here."

"I suppose . . . " she said, narrowing her eyes, but smiling too.

Carson was moving to head to his office again, when Alfred came through with the tea tray and almost ran into him.

"Steady, Alfred!" Mrs. Hughes exclaimed. "This isn't a race."

"Be at the door ready to unload the luggage after you've served," Carson called out to Alfred as he walked up the stairs.

"Yes, Mr. Carson," Alfred responded.

Carson sighed, looking back to Mrs. Hughes, who was shaking her head. He then turned toward the pantry again.

"How do you find Mrs. Patmore, now you're back?" Mrs. Hughes asked following him into the small room.

"Mrs. Patmore is very cruel to that poor girl," Carson said, sitting down. "If what I've seen today is any indication. Daisy had a long June."

"Mrs. Patmore is frightened."

Carson motioned for Mrs. Hughes to sit in the chair opposite him on the other side of the desk. "Is she right to be?"

"Well, Dr. Clarkson confirmed she has cataracts," Mrs. Hughes answered. "He sent a letter to London informing his lordship of the situation."

"What can be done about it?"

"There are treatments, but even the best are uncertain," Mrs. Hughes said. "She doesn't want to risk losing what sight she still has."

"I don't blame her, but it can't go on forever," Carson said.

"I don't know that it can go on a week, if I'm perfectly honest."

Carson's eyes widened. "Have things worsened to such a degree?"

Mrs. Hughes nodded. "I hate to spoil the family's homecoming, but she's worse than when you left. Much worse."

"What are you going to say to her ladyship?"

Mrs. Hughes sighed. "I'm not sure. I don't want the poor woman sacked, but things cannot go on as they are."

Carson stood again. "Well, you have my support in whatever you recommend. Best get upstairs now to receive the motor."

Mrs. Hughes moved to stand as well and turned to the doorway, seeing Gwen step through.

"They're here, Mrs. Hughes."

**XXX**

Upstairs, almost as soon as Alfred had set down the tray, Sybil saw the motor through the library window. "There they are!"

She, Tom and Matthew, behind Alfred, came to the door and stepped outside just as the family was climbing out of the motor. Sybil, happy to have them all home, quickly stepped forward to welcome them back.

"What a relief to be home," Robert said, hugging Sybil, then moving to shake Matthew and Tom's hands.

"Don't listen when Robert pretends not to enjoy the season," Cora said, greeting Tom and Matthew.

"When in Rome," Robert quipped.

"So good to see you both," Cora continued. "I hope you took good care of Sybil while we were away."

"Very good," Sybil said, after having greeted her sisters. "I dare say it was the best summer of my life."

"Just wait until next year, my darling," Cora said.

"Just wait and you'll have confirmation, that it'll never be as good as you've had it again," Mary said with a droll expression on her face.

Cora rolled her eyes. "Really, Mary. We had a perfectly nice time."

Mary looked back at Sybil and rolled her own eyes, causing Sybil to giggle.

"Did you enjoy yourself, Edith?" Sybil asked as the family stepped through the front door into the entrance hall.

"As much as one can when people to whom you've been introduced four summers in a row still don't remember who you are," Edith said with a sigh.

"Oh, it wasn't as bad as all that," Cora said. "The way you two are going on, you'll have poor Sybil dreading her season next year."

"You obviously don't know Sybil if you think she's not dreading it already," Edith said, earning a snicker from Sybil herself.

"Alfred had just served tea for us in the library, when we saw you coming," Matthew spoke up, addressing Robert. "I imagine you'd like some refreshment after your travels."

"Yes, I do believe I'll join you," Robert said. "Cora?"

Before Cora could answer, though, Mrs. Hughes spoke up. "Actually, your ladyship, I was wondering if I may have a word."

"I'm going up to help Anna unpack," Mary said. "I'll be down later."

Robert, Edith, Tom, Matthew and Sybil proceeded to the library for their tea, leaving Cora and Mrs. Hughes alone at the landing.

"So Grantham House is closed?" Mrs. Hughes asked.

"It will be by the end of this week," Cora answered. "Dear Mrs. Hughes, I hope you've had some time to yourself while we've been away."

Mrs. Hughes gave a small smile. "I've tackled a few jobs that get forgotten about when the house is full."

"Have you had any thoughts about the garden party for the hospital?"

"I've started on it, but . . . well, that's what we need to talk about."

"Oh, dear. That sounds like trouble. I'll take my hat off."

"I'll come up to your room in a few minutes."

"I can come to the kitchen," Cora said. "I won't be that long and really I'm not that tired."

Mrs. Hughes hesitated. "Actually, your ladyship, I'd prefer that we talk away from the kitchen."

Cora's shoulders sank, finally understanding what the topic would be. "I see. Well, I'll only need a few minutes."

**XXX**

Having waited to give Cora time to settle in, about twenty minutes after the family's arrival, Mrs. Hughes knocked softly on Cora's door. O'Brien opened it with her usual serious expression, and Mrs. Hughes stepped through.

"Do you need anything else, milady?" O'Brien asked.

"No, thank you, O'Brien. Just close the door on your way out please."

O'Brien did so and Mrs. Hughes walked into the room to where Cora was sitting at her writing desk.

"I apologize for the cloak and dagger, your ladyship, but as you've probably guessed, it's Mrs. Patmore. The time has come when we really have to make a decision."

"Poor dear, is she terribly upset?"

"Dr. Clarkson has offered some hope of it being corrected, as I believe he mentioned in the letter he was to have written to his lordship, but you can imagine her reluctance."

"Well, we'll look to her interests if the problem cannot be fixed, so she need not be concerned about that—and I certainly don't want you worrying on her behalf either. The truth is, Mrs. Hughes, his lordship did look to the matter while we were in London, and there is a surgeon we will send her to as soon as we can arrange for a cook while she's gone. My thought was that we would wait until after the garden party, but if things are as bad as you say they are . . ."

"I do believe the sooner, the better."

"I'll have Lord Grantham see to the details. You can let Mrs. Patmore know."

"If you don't mind, milady, I'll leave the telling to his lordship. I don't believe she'll believe it coming from me."

Cora smiled. "Very well."

**XXX**

After some tea and catching up on the news of the day with Robert, Tom excused himself and headed back to Crawley House, where he had promised Isobel he'd look over some legal paperwork for the hospital that Dr. Clarkson had passed on to her for him and Matthew to review. Sybil walked with him to the door and then headed upstairs to see Mary.

She knocked lightly on the door and, hearing Mary on the other side, opened it and stepped in.

"Let me guess, now that Tom has gone, I'll do for company?" Mary said arching an eyebrow.

Sybil gasped in indignation, but before she could protest—even though Mary had pretty much gotten it right—Mary started to laugh. Sybil laughed as well, her cheeks blushing ever so slightly.

"I can see him walking back to the village from here," Mary said pointing out the window she'd been looking out of when Sybil had come in.

Sybil came over to stand next to her and smiled.

"I can only assume you spent a great deal of time together if your summer was as good as you say," Mary said, smiling.

"You assume correctly, but there was more to it than that. I spent a lot of time with everyone—even granny."

Mary snickered. "I'm sure she was delightful company."

"She _was_, actually, when she was at home by herself and I caught her at the right moment."

"Did you go see her often?"

"I did. Matthew taught me how to ride a bicycle and he and Tom bought an old model for me, so I was able to get to the village more easily. You should try it."

Mary scrunched up her face in distaste. "It looks terribly uncomfortable. I'll stick to horses and walking."

Sybil smiled, then bit her lip, wondering whether Mary would care very much about hearing what she said next. After a moment, she went on. "Matthew asked about you."

Mary looked at her hands, trying to keep her reaction nonchalant. "Did he?"

"He wondered if you'd written to say whether you were enjoying yourself, and he said he hoped you were."

"And what did you say to that?"

"That you don't like to write," Sybil said with a smile. "I believe he missed you."

"We don't speak that often. What would there be to miss?"

"Your irrepressible optimism, _obviously_," Sybil said sardonically, making Mary laugh. Sybil's voice softened as she added, "He cares for you, Mary, more than you are willing to admit or let yourself hope."

Mary looked away, clearly eager to change the subject. "Anyway, I'm glad you had a good time. I do wish I could have been here with you."

"Was it really so terrible in London?" Sybil asked, a bit concerned.

Mary looked down. "Not terrible. Just . . ."

"Not what you hoped for?"

"I don't really hope for anything any more. I think there lies the problem." Mary pushed away from the window and went over to her bed to sit down. "I sound terribly depressed, but I'm not. My having turned away Mr. Napier has apparently made me a bit of an odd duck among the ladies in town, but I truly am not anxious to get married right away. I used to be, but I think that was because people in society kept telling me that I was so beautiful and so connected, I was destined to marry a duke and live in the biggest house in the county. Now I know the emperor has no clothes."

"Is the emperor you or the people in society?" Sybil asked with a furrowed brow.

Mary smiled. "A bit of both. The point is if a duke or anyone wanted to come court me, I wouldn't turn him away. I'd still very much like to marry well and have a proper house, since it can't be Downton. I'm just not so keen on it happening very soon to mama's great dismay. And I'm done being the one expected to make an effort. That's all the season is about—girls making an effort. It's just not for me anymore."

Sybil smiled. "There will be no getting out of going next year, I'm afraid, but perhaps we can skip the races and go to rallies and meet Sylvia Pankhurst."

"Things aren't quite _that _dire."

Sybil giggled, knowing her sister would never be so progressive as to actively campaign for the women's cause, but happy that having seen through at least some of the artifice of aristocratic ritual, Mary had still found a comfortable peace.

"Speaking of Pankhurst, though," Mary said, standing, "I have something for you from Imogen. She brought it over to the house a few days ago."

Mary walked over to her vanity where Sybil now noticed a small parcel was resting. Mary picked it up and handed it to Sybil who brought it over to the bed to open it.

"It's the suffragettes' colors!" Sybil exclaimed, pulling out a sash with the words "VOTES FOR WOMEN" imprinted on purple, green and white silk. There was a note card attached, and Sybil smiled at all the words that Imogen had managed, though somewhat messily, to fit onto it, front and back.

_Dearest Sybil,_

_Aren't white, purple and green just a suitably and wonderfully bold combination? I know purple in particular looks marvelous on you. I don't intend to make trouble with Lord Grantham, but I thought you would be very pleased to have an emblem of the cause for your very own. _

_Papa was quite furious when I brought them into the house but I told him straight away that they were a gift from Lady Susan Darlington. Can you believe the queen of Belgrave Square is one of us! Mama was absolutely shocked, but after Lady Susan invited us to tea, mama did not complain. Lady S. does not approve of the Misses Pankhurst's more violent tactics, but she devilishly admitted to herself having thrown rotten eggs at the prime minister! You should have seen mama's face. I almost spilled my tea! Mama wondered what would be of interest to L.S. in politics, but L.S. says in all her years she's never met a gentleman of old stock or otherwise who was quite so intelligent as she, and given her position in society she's bound to have met a great deal of them. _

_I miss you dearly and am counting the days until we can meet again near August, when we'll be going back to visit Yorkshire again. I wish we could stay at Downton, but Lady Merton made the invitation this time. Please give Tom my best. _

_Ever your faithful friend, I.S.W._

After reading it, Sybil tucked the note into her pocket, then lifted the sash over her head and adjusted it so its message was visible across her chest, from her right shoulder to her waist. She walked over to Mary's full length mirror and grinned at the sight of herself. Turning back to Mary, she asked, "What do you think?"

"On anyone else, I'd say dreadful, but on you, it's rather perfect."

**XXX**

By the time Cora came down to the library, it was almost time for luncheon. Edith had gone upstairs, and Robert and Matthew, the two who remained, were discussing the installation of a telephone, Robert having been convinced of its necessity more easily than Matthew had expected.

Both men stood as Cora came in.

"You look very well Cousin Cora," Matthew said. "London has seems to have agreed with you."

"The city can be a bit much to handle sometimes compared with the ease of country life, but Grantham House is very comfortable. We hope to welcome you there next year when Sybil is presented."

Matthew smiled in response.

"Matthew wants a telephone put in here and in Carson's rooms downstairs," Robert said.

"Do we need one?" Cora asked.

"It'll make life a bit easier for the hallboys who have to go back and forth between here and Crawley House with messages. And, of course, news from London will come more quickly."

"It does sound reasonably convenient," Cora said, "though I can't help but fear that only bad news needs to travel at that speed. Are you having one put in yourselves?"

"We are. Mr. Bromidge is to be in tomorrow, as a matter of fact. I'll tell him to see to you next. It may be a few days, though. Apparently, it's a booming business."

"I can only imagine," Robert said. After a moment, he turned to Cora and asked, "What did Mrs. Hughes want?" Robert asked.

"Mrs. Patmore is even worse than we feared. She recommends resolving the situation as soon as possible."

"Is something wrong?" Matthew asked.

"Don't tell me you've forgotten that dreadful pudding she made when the Wilkes were here," Robert said.

"How could anyone," Matthew replied with a laugh. "I didn't realize it was a sign of difficulties she was having."

"It's cataracts," Cora said. "She can regain the sight she has lost with surgery."

Robert continued, "We found a place in London that will accommodate her and do the job properly. She'll be out of commission for a few days though."

"It's kind of you to see to her," Matthew said.

Tom might have seen the next question coming.

Matthew did not.

"Say, what is the name of your cook?" Robert asked. "We'll need someone here with Mrs. Patmore gone, if it's not too much trouble for you to have your meals with us for a few days."

"You and Tom are here so often anyway," Cora said, smiling warmly. "And you know how we enjoy your company."

Matthew's heart dropped into his stomach, and with an unsteady hand, he set the teacup that he had still been holding down on the table in front of him.

"Our cook, um . . . I'll have to check with mother. She may have other plans."

"Other plans?" Cora asked with a confused expression on her face.

Matthew stood, "You know I think I'll go ask her now."

"I thought you would stay for luncheon," Robert said.

"No, no, I, um—I have some things to see to in the village," Matthew said, moving to take his leave. "It's lovely to have you all back again," he said before turning to go, without letting Robert and Cora get another word in. If either of them thought his behavior odd, neither mentioned it out loud.

Matthew walked quickly through the hallway past the stairs, so he didn't see Mary coming down just then until she called out to him.

"Are you leaving already?"

He turned and took in a quick breath at the sight of her. She didn't look much different from when she left, but standing at the landing of the staircase with the light shining through the windows above her, she looked a bit like the portraits of queens that hang in museums. He could see in that moment, how much she belonged in this house and how much the house belonged to her.

He took a step toward her and Mary did the same, coming down the rest of the way off the staircase.

"Sybil's been telling me about your adventures," Mary said. "Knowing her stubbornness as I do I must say you've earned a medal for patience if you taught her how to do something like ride a bicycle."

Matthew smiled bashfully. "Too much eagerness does not always make for a good pupil, but in Sybil's case it worked out. She picked it up quite easily. I imagine you have no such interests."

"You imagine right."

"I hope your time in London was everything that you wished."

Mary laughed. "Nothing is ever everything I wish. But a person with expectations as I have been taught to have must learn to make do."

Mary looked at Matthew expectantly, waiting for him to laugh at her snobbery, which she had exaggerated on purpose for his amusement. Instead, though, Matthew's face got serious. He knew she had been joking, but it occurred to him that in his and Isobel's concern for how Violet, Robert and Cora would treat Tom once his parentage had been made known, he'd never thought about how Mary would react. He had never thought, in fact, how it would change their treatment of _him_.

His change in demeanor did not go unnoticed.

"Is something wrong?" Mary asked.

"I'm sorry to cut you off," he said looking down, "but I must be going."

Mary offered a small smile. "All right, then. Will we see you for dinner?"

"I think so," he said. He smiled again, trying to rein in his concerns. "I'm glad you're back," he said quietly.

"I'm happy to be back." Then she watched him turn and go.

**XXX**

The house was quiet when Matthew entered. Moseley met him in the entryway and took his coat and hat.

"Is Mrs. Crawley still at the hospital, Moseley?" Matthew asked him.

"No, she returned just a short while ago, I believe she went upstairs to her room. Mr. Branson is in the parlor."

"Thank you."

Moseley was about to step away, when Matthew called him back. "Moseley, can you ask Mrs. Branson to come up to the parlor?"

"Certainly, sir, although she and Ivy are working on luncheon, so it might be difficult to get her to step away from the kitchen at the moment," Moseley said with a slight smile.

"Of course. But it is a rather important matter, so if not right away, when she has a minute."

"Very good, sir."

Matthew went up the stairs and straight to his mother's room, knocking lightly at the door.

Isobel opened it with a smile. "You're back! I was just on my way downstairs." She noticed the concern in his expression. "Is something wrong?"

"Not wrong per se, just . . . well, come down. This is a matter to be discussed _en famille_."

Isobel and Matthew descended the stairs and saw Claire coming into the parlor just ahead of them. Tom stood from his chair by the fireplace.

"Mr. Moseley said you wanted to see me, sir," Claire said.

"What's this about, Matthew?" Isobel asked.

Matthew took a deep breath. "Do you all remember the mishap with the pudding a few months ago?"

"When Mrs. Patmore salted it by mistake?" Tom asked.

Matthew nodded. "It turns out she is having problems with her vision, and it's apparently gotten so bad that Robert and Cora plan to send her to a surgeon in London."

"That's nice of them," Isobel said.

"What are they going to do in the interim?" Tom asked. Matthew turned to answer him and he could see by the look in Tom's eyes that he knew what their intended solution was.

"Well . . . they'd like ours to fill in." Matthew waited for a moment for his words to sink in. Isobel sat down on the sofa and looked to Claire, who was rubbing her forehead with her fingers.

The world the two women had carefully erected for their sons was not based on a lie, but rather on the elevation of equality and fairness and hard work above judgment and prejudice—a value system that the outside was not yet ready to embrace as fully as Reginald Crawley had taught them all to do. But to continue to live in that world now would mean deliberate deception. Or it would mean coming clean. And their sons having been raised rightly, both mothers in that room knew that would be the path Tom and Matthew would choose.

"I'll tell Robert tonight," Tom said quietly.

"Do you really have to, though?" Claire asked. "Could we make up some excuse? And who's to say if I went they would figure it out? I use Connelly when I'm in the village. No one's the wiser."

"That's because they don't know you. The Crawleys know us. I don't see a way around it," Tom said. "And I won't have you making my dinner and then pretend you're nothing to me."

"But it's a big house, not like here," Claire insisted. "I won't even see you."

"That's not the point."

"I believe Tom is right," Matthew said. "To have an Irish cook and an Irish adopted son. It's too much of a coincidence. The staff will gossip. It's better to bring the truth to the family from the start. And besides, we may be worrying over nothing. Who's to say they will react at all."

Isobel snorted. "You will have me believe that the Her Ladyship the Dowager Countess of Grantham Violet Crawley is not going to turn her nose up at _all_ of us? She who wouldn't shake hands with me when we met because a middle class woman dared to address her as an equal?"

Matthew's sighed in annoyance. "Mother, this is not the time for your self-righteousness."

Isobel ignored Matthew and stepped up to Tom. "My dear boy, please don't mistake me. I am more proud of you than you could imagine, but it would be grossly naive to think they will not react negatively to this. I say this not out of concern for their feelings but for yours and for your future. We don't have to tell them anything."

Tom sighed. "My future is my own. This isn't going to affect it, but neither am I ashamed of my past. I kept things quiet up until this point because they hadn't asked the question, but they've as good as now and I won't lie. Not about who I am."

"Tom, please—" Claire cut in.

"And are you so ashamed of me claiming you?" He asked her, challenge in his voice.

Claire rolled her eyes and let out an angry breath. "Must you be so high and mighty all the time? Maybe _I_ don't want to be exposed to the absurdities that are sure to come my way from their ridiculous army of servants. None are so judgmental as those below stairs in houses like that."

"I'm sorry, mam," Tom said. "If you don't want to fill in for Mrs. Patmore you don't have to, but I am going to tell them either way."

"She'll not be abused, not if I'm there with her."

The family turned to see Moseley at the threshold.

"I apologize if I'm intruding on what is clearly a family matter, but if Mrs. Branson is to go cook at Downton Abbey, Ivy and I will have to take our meals there as well. So long as I am present none will speak ill of her or anyone at Crawley House."

Matthew smiled. "That's very gallant of you, Moseley, and most appreciated."

"I will support you, as well, Mrs. Branson, whatever you decide to do," Isobel said.

"Well, if he insists," Claire said nodding her head toward Tom, "there's no point in turning them down—but I do wonder whether they'd even want me there once they have full knowledge of everything."

"It's a good question and will need answering," Isobel said. Turning to Tom she added, "All this said, Tom, I still don't think it's any of their business. Don't feel you have to reveal anything out of obligation."

"At this point, I think I need for them to know."

"What could you mean?" Isobel asked.

"The Crawleys—Robert, Violet, all of them—they've welcomed me into their lives, dined with me, come to treat me quite like family," Tom said quietly. "I do believe they love me as one of theirs. If I tell them and they turn me away now, they will only have done so because I am the son of an Irish mill worker and a servant, and as such unworthy of their company. Not for any other reason. I need to know that's not who they really are because if it is then I never want to step into that house again."

Without another word, Tom walked out of the room and out the door of the house.

Matthew moved as if to follow, but felt Claire's hand on his arm. "Let me."

She followed her son out into the yard, where she saw him pacing on the front walk. Hearing her approach, he looked up and she could see a cloud of tears in his eyes. She sighed and pulled him into a hug. After a few minutes, she pulled away and cupped his face with her hands. "You are such a good man, but you are too hard on this world. I will tell you right now, they will not be as perfect as you want them to be. Nobody in this life is. Prepare yourself for that fact and for tears and anger and all of what may come from this. But don't push them away either, not if they mean so much to you."

Tom wiped an errant tear from his cheek with the back of his hand and laughed at himself. "What kind of a socialist cares this much about a family of bloody aristocrats. I should go burn the house down as penance for having helped preserve it in the first place."

"Stop with your nonsense," Claire said. "And never apologize for your heart. Not even to yourself. Besides,_ she_ already knows and she's the one that matters, isn't she?"

Tom looked away, blushing and unable to contain his smile.

"Come on," Claire said pulling him back toward the house. "I've made a good lunch and I don't want it spoiled."

**XXX**

That evening when Matthew, Tom and Isobel stepped into the drawing room, Robert and Cora were there alone, as the girls had not come down yet.

"Good evening," Cora said brightly.

Isobel, thinking it best to have it all done with, took a deep breath and put on as optimistic a smile as she could muster. "Matthew tells me you'll be in need of a cook for a brief period."

"Yes, Mrs. Patmore will be having surgery on her cataracts and she'll need a few days for the trip to London and then to convalesce," Cora answered.

"Well, we'll be happy to share ours, assuming you'll want her once we tell you what we're about to tell you."

Cora and Robert exchanged puzzled glances.

Isobel looked at Matthew and Tom for a moment, then turned back to Robert and Cora. "Our housekeeper serves as our cook. She's quite wonderful. She'd been with me for more than twenty years. Her name is Claire Branson."

Tom waited a moment, then added for good measure, "She's my mother."


	27. Chapter 27

_First of all THANK YOU everyone who left a review. I can't even begin to describe how happy and proud the response to the last chapter made me :)_

_As for this chapter, I can honestly say that I have never been more nervous about posting anything in my life. I really hope that this meets expectations or—at least—that I've written it in such a way that readers can understand where the characters are coming from. I'll point out once again that because they get along so well in this story, Tom and Robert's relationship here may SEEM out of character, but I really have tried to be as faithful to what I believe the show has presented within the different circumstances I have built. To be honest, of all the relationships in this story, Tom and Robert's is the probably the most different from the show because (1) on the show Tom crosses a line that is sacrosanct to Robert and everything canon Tom does from that point is judged by Robert through that lens—that doesn't happen here. And (2) on the show Robert does not experience the consequences of his poor management of the estate the way he does here. Even though it's temporary, the loss of Downton deeply changes Robert and makes him appreciate Tom and Matthew's business savvy and smarts. Conversely, when Robert hands over the reigns, allowing Tom to dictate staff salaries and agrees to help the tenants work toward future ownership of the land, in Tom's eyes, Robert's willingness to compromise on these points sets him apart from other upper class men. Just something to keep in mind in reading this chapter._

_This chapter and the next are companion pieces and both of them will jump back and forth between action that starts hours after the revelation and flashbacks to the immediate aftermath. It should make sense as you read._

_Sorry for the long note! Please continue to share your thoughts with me! On with the show . . ._

* * *

Robert was sitting on the bed of his dressing room, shoulders slumped and a blank expression on his face, when Bates knocked on the door. The knock was a bit of a formality. Bates knew Robert was in the room but wanted to announce himself. By the third knock, Bates wondered if something was wrong and decided to peek in.

Bates wasn't sure what to make of the sight of his employer looking as if he'd finished re-reading his favorite book only to find that, to his great disappointment, someone had changed the ending on him.

"Is everything all right, milord?"

Bates' voice finally pulled Robert out of his reverie. "Bates . . . have you been there long?" Robert asked, still seeming a bit distracted.

"No, I just came in."

"Oh."

When Robert did not stand for Bates to take Robert's dinner jacket, Bates wondered whether he should ask again if something was the matter. Before he could say anything, though, Robert spoke up.

"Do you ever feel like the world is upside down?"

"I think I feel that most days, milord," Bates said, the left side of his lips curving into a small smile.

"I'm not averse to change, you know," Robert said. "I know everyone thinks I am. They treat me as if I'm incapable of understanding how resolutely our world spins ever forward. I was that way once, perhaps, but . . . life has taught me things few in my position are ever given the chance to learn. And yet they still treat me like a relic that needs to be _handled_."

Bates's brow furrowed. In his years of knowing Robert, Bates couldn't remember ever seeing him like this. Robert was not a man prone to introspection or to question himself. Even when he was forced to accept the loss of Downton and Bates expected a torrent of emotion from him, Robert remained stoic. This—whatever _this_ was—was different.

After a moment's silence, Bates ventured a question, "And who might_ they_ be, milord?"

Robert turned back to Bates abruptly. "Pardon me?"

"You said, _'They_ still treat me like a relic that needs to be handled.' I asked merely who 'they' are?"

Robert shook his head, finally standing from the bed and moving toward to Bates so the valet could take his jacket and clothes. "Never mind me. It's been a long night."

"Mr. Carson said dinner was very quiet."

Robert sighed. "It was."

**XXX**

_"She's your what?" Robert asked. He didn't raise his voice, to Tom and Matthew's surprise. In fact, his tone sounded not angry, but confused, as if he hadn't understood or heard the words that had come out of Tom's mouth._

_"She's my mother," Tom repeated._

_"Oh," Cora said blinking a few times._

_Eager not to let any silence linger for long, Isobel spoke up. "We can understand if you'd prefer she not come to fill in, but—"_

_"Wait," Cora said without looking up, as if Isobel's voice had interrupted her train of thought. After a moment, she looked up again and focused her eyes on Isobel. Neither she nor Robert had looked Tom in the eye yet, which had not escaped Tom's notice. _

_"What do you mean we'd prefer if she didn't come?" Cora asked, finally finding her bearings after the momentary shock had started to dissipate. "Why do you think we wouldn't want her?"_

_Cora saw out of the corner of her eye as Tom and Matthew both looked at Robert after she spoke. Neither of them said anything, but they had, for all intents and purposes, answered her question. They expected her and Robert to snub Tom's mother—Tom's_ mother—_and perhaps even Tom as well. _

_"We'd understand if you wouldn't feel comfortable . . . blurring the lines, so to speak," Isobel continued._

_"Is that what you call it?" Robert asked, finally speaking again, an accusation in his tone that none in the room could miss. _

_Matthew spoke up quickly. "We don't call it anything. We understand it's an unusual arrangement—"_

_"Unusual?" Robert said, drawing out the syllables as if he was saying the word for the first time and trying to discern its meaning, which was more or less the case. After all, what could Matthew—who had proven himself so different, so _modern_, in his thinking compared with Robert—mean by such a word? What was usual and ordinary to Matthew that Robert would also define as such?_

_"Robert, please," Cora cut in._

_"Please, what? I'm simply asking what he means!"_

_Isobel stepped forward once more, "Tom and Claire came to us when Tom was only a year old. My late husband and I allowed him to spend his day in the nursery with Matthew while his mother worked, and eventually Reginald took such a shining to him that we resolved to treat him as our own. He was raised as a middle class son—"_

_"But he's not," Robert interrupted, his eyes finally landing on Tom's. Robert had gotten to know the young man so well in the past year, reading his emotions in this moment was rather easy, and Robert could see in Tom's eyes a measure of apology, but also his usual defiance._

_"I'm not only if you choose to define me by where I'm from instead of where I'm going," Tom said. He held Robert's stare, which was radiating his obvious disappointment, for a long moment, before turning to Cora and adding more quietly, "I sincerely apologize if you feel deceived by me. That was never my intent. If there is a fault to be found in my seeming duplicity, it was a desire to be judged on my character alone."_

_"And, of course, you thought full honesty would have rendered us incapable of that." Robert said. "Such is you fair judgment of us?"_

_"Robert—" Both Matthew and Cora spoke up, but Robert's anger was rising, and resolved not to let it get the better of him, he strode out of the room just as Mary, Edith and Sybil were entering._

_"What's wrong with papa?" Mary asked bewildered._

_Before another word was said, Tom followed Robert out of the room. _

_"Robert," Tom called out but received no answer. He continued his pursuit through the hall and into the library. "ROBERT!" _

_Robert had stopped in the middle of the room, but he still offered no response. _

_Finally, Tom let out a soft, mirthless laugh, his shoulders drooping in defeat. "Lord Grantham, is that how I am to address his lordship from now on? Will that be the only way you will answer me?"_

_Robert swept around to him angrily, "How dare you?"_

_"How dare I WHAT?!" Tom retorted, his own anger consuming him. "Talk to you as if we are equals, as if we are family? Am I too common to be your friend now?"_

_"How dare you make presumptions about me or the very family to which you refer, the family into which we welcomed you without question!"_

_"Are you telling me that had you known you would have treated me no differently? Because there is no honesty in that. You are a kind and thoughtful man, Robert but you are a product of your class. You quarrel with me over the expectations I have as to your conduct, but you and I both know your peers would expect no different from you. Do you condemn them as you condemn me?"_

_"If I am a product of my class, are you not a product of yours?"_

_Tom took a deep breath. "I won't apologize for who I am, and I am proud of my parents, but I chose to stand on my own two feet. You perceive a deliberate deception in that choice and perhaps you will ascribe what you now see as an innate deceitfulness in me to my breeding or whatever you like to call it, but I want my choices and my actions to define me. Nothing else."_

_"So _you_ may overcome the prejudices ascribed to your birth, but I may not overcome those you ascribe to mine?"_

_Tom looked down. "I didn't say that."_

_Robert took a deep breath and rubbed his face with his hands. "I don't misunderstand you Tom. I can see why you would keep such a truth to yourself."_

_"You put your faith in me, Robert, and I am quite sorry if you feel I have broken your trust. You know I exercise my own political beliefs, but even in so doing, nothing in my work on your behalf or for the estate was done out of anything except respect and honest affection."_

_The two men looked at one another for a long time. Tom was about to speak again, when Carson stepped into the room. _

_"Dinner is served, my lord."_

_"Thank you, Carson," Robert replied. "We'll be there presently."_

_Carson gave a slight bow and left again. Robert looked at Tom again, then walked past him toward the door, stopping just before going through it. _

_"You do not have to fear being cast out for this, Tom, and your mother is welcome here to serve in Mrs. Patmore's stead if she chooses to do so." He paused, as if to collect himself, then added, "I do not regret putting my trust in you. I'm only sorry to learn now that I did not have yours."_

_With that he left the room. Tom sat down on the sofa and put his head in his hands. He was glad the truth was out, and he had been ready to accept banishment as the outcome. He realized only now, however, that that would have been less punishing than being allowed to stay but no longer in the role of Robert's favorite, which was exactly what he was now facing._

**XXX**

Cora's book was open on her lap, and though she pretended to be reading it, her eyes had been trained on Robert from the moment he'd entered the room and sat down with his back to her on their bed.

After a few minutes, his head turned slightly toward her. "Did you talk to the girls?"

"I did. Isobel explained things in the parlor before you joined us, so they'd had some time to absorb the news. They were surprised, of course, but didn't really have much to say. Sybil, in particular, seemed more eager to know my thoughts than anything else."

"What are your thoughts?" Robert asked.

Cora sighed. "He's such a nice young man, and he's been so helpful to us. I suppose it may seem unorthodox to you not to be bothered by it, but it's different for me."

"How could I forget, you're an American," Robert said with a soft laugh.

"That's not what I mean, Robert," Cora said seriously.

Robert faced forward again. "It's not the same."

"Isn't it, though?"

"Your mother was from an established family in New York, and your father a welcomed member of society by the time you were born."

"But that's not how he started out, and that's certainly not how your mother saw him—oh, heavens, what will _she_ say?"

"Of all the nights for mama to miss dinner."

"I'll go see her in the morning," Cora said.

"I'll go."

"Robert, I think this news will be best delivered by me."

"Are you so afraid I won't give a fair accounting of the facts?"

Cora sighed. "You're angry, and there's nothing wrong with your being angry, but she's so fond of him. We need to be sensitive to that."

"We'll go together then."

Robert stood and climbed into bed next to Cora. She closed her book and set it on her night table. She turned toward Robert, who was staring blankly at the ceiling.

"How long will Tom be out of your favor?" She asked.

Robert sighed. "I don't know."

"Can we really blame him? He despises our rules, but he's lived by them in the past year out of affection and friendship for us—for _you_. Doesn't that count for anything?"

He looked at Cora out of the side of his eyes. "I am fully aware of his _magnanimity_."

Cora snickered. "Please don't be sarcastic."

"I told him he need not expect further rebuke from me. That is how I'm leaving it for the moment."

Cora smiled, and Robert questioned her with his expression.

"You may not appreciate me saying so, but you have a hard time keeping a stiff upper lip when your feelings have been hurt. I know you dislike that about yourself, but I must say, were it not the case, I couldn't love you as I do."

Robert smiled and kissed her forehead. "And thank God for that."

**XXX**

In another corner of the house, Sybil was sitting at her writing desk, staring off into space, absentmindedly twirling her pen in her fingers. She'd begun to write down her thoughts on Tom's revelation to the family but had to stop, laughing to herself about her inability to find the words to describe the palpable awkwardness that had hung over dinner. None of the sisters knew the reason for the tension until after, in the parlor, when Cora told them Mrs. Branson would be filling in for Mrs. Patmore, with Isobel quickly following up to explain who exactly Mrs. Branson was. Sybil didn't bother to feign surprise, but her family members seemed so absorbed in their own reactions, none seemed to notice that it wasn't news to her. When she spoke to Tom later, they were both happy to have it out in the open, even knowing the complications that would arise—some of those complications openly acknowledged by them, some only silently so.

Indeed, it was unlike any evening she had ever experienced.

Sybil set down pen to paper once more, but stopped when she heard a light knock. The door opened slightly and Edith peeked in.

"Are you up?" She asked quietly.

"I am. Come in." Sybil stood from her desk and came over to her bed, pulling on the coverlet to let Edith climb in beside her. The sisters rolled onto their sides facing one another.

"That was quite a night," Edith said.

Sybil sighed. "I don't think I've ever seen papa quite so serious at dinner. He barely said two words."

"Do you think eventually he will forgive Tom?" Edith asked.

Sybil bristled at the question. "I don't understand why there has to be anything to forgive. Tom's done nothing wrong, unless you think him no longer welcome because—"

"Of course I don't think that, Sybil!"

"I'm sorry. It just seems to me a silly thing to be upset about."

"Well," Edith said, carefully, "he did lie about his background."

"No he didn't! If anyone had bothered to ask he would have answered honestly."

Edith narrowed her eyes. "How do you know that?"

Sybil rolled onto her back and looked at the ceiling.

"Sybil? Did _you_ ever ask him?"

After a moment's pause she answered, "Yes. Well, no—not exactly. The point is he told me."

"When?"

"The night of my birthday last year."

"You've known all this time!"

Sybil looked over to Edith again. "I wasn't keeping it a secret exactly."

"Did he ask you not to say anything?"

"No! On the contrary, he said if I wanted to tell everyone, I could. Really, Edith, do you think so little of Tom?"

Edith rolled her eyes. "Please, stop. You know I don't. It's just . . ."

"It's just what?"

"I can see why you'd keep it from papa, that's all." Edith smiled seeing confusion in her sister's expression, so she continued. "To make things easier when the time came for . . . well, you know."

"I really don't," Sybil said.

"When the time came for Tom to ask for your hand, silly! I'm not blind."

Sybil blushed and smiled slightly. But her smile faded after a moment, and she bit her lip. "Do you suppose it will be difficult now?"

"I don't know. I'm inclined to believe papa will come around, though it will take time. Who ever knows with granny?"

"I do love him terribly. I dare say I'm prepared to run away if papa objects."

Edith laughed. "I don't think it will come to that." Getting serious again, she added, "I doubt very much that acceptance will come before your season, though."

"It's all right. I've assumed as much. It will be fun, I think, with Tom there with me."

"Assuming he'll be allowed," Edith said, feeling the need to tamp down Sybil's expectations.

"I know Rome wasn't built in a day, but we'll have a year to smooth things over in that regard."

Edith wanted to tell Sybil that the question of Tom being received in London wasn't just up to their parents. In fact, other than her own ball, it was unlikely the son of a servant would be invited anywhere at all. In some ways, London society was less discriminating than what the Crawleys were used to in Yorkshire; in other ways it was much more so. But Edith knew that Sybil wasn't naive and that ultimately it wouldn't matter to her. There was no sense in belaboring the point, not when Edith's curiosity was getting the better of her on other matters.

"So if you known of his mother . . ."

Sybil smiled. "You're asking if I've met her."

"Have you?"

"Yes. She's a lovely person. I can see her influence on him as easily as I can see Cousin Isobel's."

Edith thought for a moment. "You know, I'm remembering now something that Cousin Matthew said to me. At the servants ball, when Tom was dancing with granny, Matthew and I were dancing together, and I made a joke about Tom having a way with women. Matthew said it must come from having two mothers. I don't think he even noticed he said it. At the time, I thought he meant that Tom was raised by a woman other than his natural mother, not that they were both in his life at the same time."

Sybil smiled, thinking about how much more at ease Edith was now that Matthew was in her life. It might have saddened Sybil that they had not fallen in love were it not so clear now that at the point at which Edith and Matthew met, Edith was most in need of a friend, not a suitor. The friendship had obviously done her good.

"Edith," Sybil said quietly. "I hope what I'm about to say doesn't trouble you, but as sorry as I was to lose James and Patrick, I'm glad that Matthew will be the one who follows papa. Mrs. Branson has been a kind of mother to him as well and a good influence. I think someone of his mind will do the title true justice."

Edith smiled. "I agree. I did love Patrick, but he wasn't always a good person. I was willing to forgive his faults because of how I felt, but his love for me was selfish. I can see that now." Edith sat up as if to leave, but then turned to face Sybil, who sat up as well.

"Can I ask you something?"

"Anything," Sybil said with a smile, noticing something of a longing expression on Edith's face.

"What is it like for you? Being in love."

Sybil thought for a moment, trying to summon as honest and coherent an answer as she could to what she knew to be a sincere question. "It's hard to put into words . . . my heart races when I see him. Everything he says I want to remember exactly as he said it. I feel free to say or think or feel anything at all with—as if I am more myself around him than I am around anyone else or even when I'm alone. I don't _need _him to be myself or to do as I wish—I believe he'd be disappointed in me if that were the case—but it just helps to know that somewhere there's a friend who will always understands me no matter what."

Edith smiled and looked down at her hands. "Matthew told me that he should like to see me with someone who enjoys my driving." She looked up to Sybil's eyes again and the sisters fell into a fit of giggles.

After they'd calmed a bit, Edith threw herself back on the bed with a sigh. "When he said it, I took him literally, but listening to you, I understand that he meant I should be with someone who understands what I like. Patrick didn't always. In fact, he never did."

"It _should_ be someone who understands what you like—and who loves you for it."

Standing up again, Edith said. "I don't know if such a man exists, but I shall go now so I may dream of him."

Sybil laughed as Edith walked over to the door. "Do you think he loves you?" Edith asked.

Sybil sighed contentedly. "I know he does."

"We should go to Crawley House tomorrow. I know Tom and Matthew will be at the partnership, but it will be nice to see Cousin Isobel, and offer a reminder that nothing will change."

"Oh, Edith! That's a wonderful idea!"

"And I'll drive us," Edith said quickly, leaving the room as soon as the words had left her lips, leaving Sybil no chance to argue the point.

**XXX**

_After Robert and Tom had left the drawing room, the girls stepped in wondering what exactly had driven them out in the first place. _

_"You know how your father can get," Cora answered after Mary asked about what had driven him out of the room._

_"He and Tom aren't fighting, are they?" Sybil asked, a bit concerned._

_Isobel looked to Cora, silently asking whether the news would be shared with the young ladies._

_"It's nothing that won't be smoothed over eventually," Cora said finally. _

_"Is there something we can do to help?" Sybil persisted._

_"There isn't. I'll explain after dinner," Cora said._

_"Are you missing London yet?" Matthew asked, turning to Edith, who was next to him, trying to guide the conversation to a safe topic._

_"It takes longer than one afternoon, for me," she said with a smile. "By the time next May comes around, I'll have forgotten how tedious it can be and look forward to going back again, but for a good long while I'll be quite happy that this is home."_

_"Well, Downton was certainly not the same without all of you here," Matthew said. _

_For several moments, nobody spoke, and Mary, Edith and Sybil looked at one another a bit puzzled. Conversation on the first night the two families had met had been stilted, but never since, not like this._

_Isobel spoke again in an effort to fill the silence. "Will Violet not be joining us this evening? She's usually so prompt."_

_"She's sent a note to inform us she's feeling under the weather," Cora said._

_Isobel and Matthew looked at one another realizing that her absence would prolong the process of telling the family about Tom in a way they had been hoping to avoid._

_"I'll be by to see her tomorrow," Cora said, looking at Isobel, obviously aware of her concerns regarding who would be the one to tell Violet. _

_That it would be Cora eased Isobel's worries somewhat, though she resolved to pay a call to Violet herself. She had a feeling that the loss of her good opinion would hurt Tom as much as the loss of Robert's. Isobel felt the need to soften the blow as much as possible. She knew Tom to be as proud of what he'd been born with as he was of what he'd been given by her and her husband and of what he'd earned on his own, but Tom was also not without feelings. Despite the misgivings he (and Isobel herself) might have felt in stepping into the world of Downton, Isobel knew Tom's heart had made room for all of them rather easily._

_"Perhaps, I should go see what's keeping Tom and Robert," Matthew said, but just at that moment, Carson stepped in to announce that dinner was served._

_As they all stood to go, Cora told the butler," Carson, I believe his lordship and Mr. Branson are in the library. Do go and fetch them, will you?"_

_"Yes, my lady," he answered._

_As they moved toward the dining room, Mary fell into step next to Matthew. "I do hope everything is all right. Is there trouble with the estate?"_

_Matthew smiled. "No. It's more of a personal matter. But one that I hope will be put aside in due course."_

_"Papa is more stubborn than you are likely to know, so even not knowing what it is, I'll warn you to adjust your expectations accordingly," Mary said._

_"Are you as stubborn as he?" _

_"Some would be willing to say I am much worse."_

_Matthew laughed, but in his mind he hoped that for Tom's sake and for his own that, at least in this case, that would not prove true._

_They were settling into their seats when Robert came into the dining room, with Tom completing the party a short while later. Tom's chair was directly across from Sybil, whose warm smile throughout the evening served as a reminder as to why he was there at all._

**XXX**

Isobel, Matthew and Tom rode back in silence, though it was not an uncomfortable one. All three of them were emotionally exhausted by the evening's events, and each was still trying to decipher exactly how things would change. The truth was that for the most part nothing would be changing. Superficially, at least, life would be going on as it was before. And everyone seemed in relative agreement that the rift that now existed between Tom and Robert would eventually heal. Everyone, that is, except Tom and Robert.

When they got back to Crawley House, Moseley watched them expectantly as they came in. Seeing his expression, Isobel smiled.

"No need for concern, Moseley. The world remains unbroken, for the most part."

"The same may not be said about Lord Grantham's ego," Matthew said jokingly.

"Who would have thought it so fragile," Tom added, sarcasm dripping from his tone.

Moseley smiled as he saw both Tom and Matthew proceeding directly to the parlor, where, he had no doubt, they would be opening the whiskey. Isobel stood watching them alongside Moseley. He turned to her and asked quietly, "Things really are all right?"

"As well as can be expected," she answered. "We have upset the balance yet again, but the Robert Crawleys have proven themselves able to rise the occasion before. I have no doubt they will do so again."

"If I may say, Mrs. Crawley, you being as practical and sensible a woman as you are, the faith you put in Lord Grantham and his lot sometimes surprises me."

Isobel turned to Moseley. "I believe we are primarily what we make of ourselves, but I also believe there are things—_good_ things—in our nature that cannot be denied. The blood line that produced Robert Crawley also produced my husband, and I cannot bring myself to believe that they are all that far apart. I trust the Crawleys to do what is right by the faith I have in my husband, and indeed the faith he would have in them as his family. At the end of a day like today, Reginald remains the North Star toward which I always turn. He does not guide me wrong."

With that she went upstairs.

In the parlor, Tom poured himself and Matthew each a glass and then sat down with a laugh.

"I suppose that could have been much worse," Tom said.

"They could have thrown us out on the spot," Matthew said, twirling the amber liquid in his glass before taking a sip.

"And just when the staff was starting to get used to you," Tom replied. They both laughed for a moment, then Tom's face became serious again. "What do you suppose the old man would've made of all this?"

"It's funny," Matthew said, "I find myself thinking of him more now that I live here and know what awaits me than I did before, when my future was a blank slate. When I didn't know what was to come, I didn't know what help I would need. Now I wish for his counsel more than ever."

Without saying a word, Tom lifted his glass. Matthew did as well, both of them toasting to the man who had raised them, whom they still loved and missed dearly.

"So where did you and Robert leave things?" Matthew asked.

"Robert is _disappointed_ in me," Tom answered.

"Is he disappointed that his favorite son is not who he thought he was or not so well born as he might have hoped?"

Tom smirked. "Disappointed that I did not give him the opportunity to accept me as I really was from the start. Disappointed that by not revealing myself until now, I have also revealed how little I think of him and his capacity for empathy."

"Do you believe he would have accepted you as he did had he known?"

Tom looked at Matthew with an expression that clearly suggested he did not. "People like Robert tend to think the best of themselves," Tom said after taking a drink. "I believe that on the surface he is sincere in his belief that nothing would have changed, but I know and I believe even he knows deep down that that is not the case. I have no way of convincing myself he would have been willing to entrust the state to you _and_ to me, certainly not as easily as he did, knowing then what he knows now."

"You're probably right," Matthew said. "And I'm sure he is disappointed in _himself_ by that knowledge. There's something in that with regard to how much he values you."

"I don't blame him entirely," Tom said after a while. "He was never taught anything except his own superiority. But I disappoint myself in my willingness to make excuses for his snobbery."

"So neither one of you is as angry with the other as you are angry at yourselves—which makes you more similar than you are different."

Tom laughed. "I wish I knew why any of it matters so much to me, so I could know how to make it stop mattering."

Matthew stood up laughing. He finished his drink in one gulp and set the empty glass down on the table. "You know exactly why you care so much. I would think knowing she is the reason makes everything easier."

"Except I've made it all more difficult for us by this revelation, haven't I?"

"Did you ever intend to marry Sybil as something other than your true self?"

"No."

"Then you know it was always going to be difficult." Matthew sighed, then went on. "I told you once that I believed they would not object out of hand to your interest in her. Mother may think me naive, but that is still what I believe. It may not be the easiest road, but you are surer of your love now than you were when we first spoke of this, so now you know that the travel will be worth it."

Tom smiled bashfully. "Thank you."

"For?"

"Everything."


	28. Chapter 28

_Thanks so much for your patience, everyone! And, as always, for your kind thoughts. As I mentioned in the last chapter, this one also flashes back and forth between the present (now the morning after) and the evening of the big reveal. Next chapter will go back to the normal structure. This one has both Mary and Violet's reactions to the news, as well as lots of Tom and Sybil goodness. _

_As you'll see, things are at a point between them that it is no longer a matter of if but when. They know they will be together, but they also know her family will need time, so in terms of proposals and marriage they aren't going to rush things. That said they are passionate young people and their restraint, physically speaking, is only going to hold for so long. It doesn't happen in this chapter, but at the risk of being a total tease, I will say that kissing will happen sooner rather than later._

_Hope you enjoy!_

* * *

Standing by the window in Mary's room, Sybil kept her eyes on her sister as Mary leaned over her jewelry box and sorted through its contents in search of her favorite pendant.

"Mary, please say something," Sybil said, a bit annoyed.

"This is the worst kind of betrayal. Is that what you want to hear?"

Sybil tried to keep her composure as long as possible, but after only several seconds, she burst out laughing.

"I'm being perfectly serious," Mary insisted, hands working more furiously than before as her annoyance got the better of her. "To have promised Edith I would step into the car with her behind the wheel? It's absolutely ridiculous."

"Mary, it's you who's being ridiculous. She's a good driver."

Mary glanced over at Sybil with a skeptical look in her eyes. "Even you don't believe that."

Sybil smiled. "Perhaps not, but I already promised. Anyway, it's a short distance, and you can't deny her the joy driving brings her."

"I can if it means putting my life in her hands or do you forget that she is less fond of me than she is of everyone else in the family?"

Sybil rolled her eyes. "I'll be in the car with you, and if she's really terrible we can walk back," she insisted. "But both Pratt and Tom have said that she's ready for the road."

"Well, Tom has proven himself of questionable judgment, hasn't he?"

Sybil's expression closed up at her sister's words.

Mary straightened up, seeing Sybil's reaction, and turned to face her. "Oh, don't look at me like that. I was making a joke."

"No, you weren't," Sybil said quietly.

Mary watched her sister as she turned away from her to look out the window. Mary approached carefully, putting her hand on Sybil's shoulder. "Nothing is going to change. You heard mama."

"Your mind has changed," Sybil said. "Just as papa's. I can tell."

Mary sighed "This is not a topic I'm keen to discuss, but if you insist, I'll point out that Papa doesn't appreciate being lied to and neither do I."

"Tom didn't lie! How many times do I have to say it!"

"It was a lie of omission, Sybil. Don't be stupid. He knew perfectly well what he was doing by keeping it to himself—they all did."

"Oh, so you'll now cast Matthew aside as well for the mere association? What exactly do you have to gain by pushing them away except the loss of people you know to be good friends!? Or do you hope to improve your standing among those who have already tossed you aside?" Sybil shrugged off Mary's hand, knowing how petulant she sounded, but unable to control her anger. Edith was completely unphased by the revelation, but Mary had been more circumspect, which Sybil couldn't help but take somewhat personally, given that Mary had been the one in whom she'd chosen to confide about her feelings for Tom.

Mary took a deep breath. She didn't mind being called a snob. She supposed the label was more or less accurate, but she didn't like it coming from Sybil, for whom the word wasn't merely a descriptor, but an accusation.

"You know perfectly well that I'm as fond of him—_both_ of them—now as I was before."

"I _don't _know," Sybil challenged. "Are you?"

"I am. Speaking specifically of Tom, I like him as much as I can like a any person who always has to be right," Mary replied, with a smile forming at her last words, easing at least some of the tension between them.

Sybil couldn't help but smile back. "I'll agree that his confidence can occasionally veer into overconfidence with amusing results, but he's really not as bad as you say."

"Not to you, perhaps, but not everyone can love him as you do, can they?"

"No," Sybil said, her smile fading. She looked at Mary for a long moment, trying to discern her true feelings, believing her older sister to be hiding much of what she truly felt.

Mary could feel the scrutiny of her gaze. "Must you be so pious about this of all things? It's a lot to digest. It isn't unreasonable to want time to adjust."

"To adjust to what? If nothing truly is going to change—what exactly is there for you to get used to?"

"Sybil, you can't deny that he is a different person from whom we thought he was."

"I will deny it! To me he's never been anything other than himself. Perhaps to you and others he's _seems _different now, but he's not different in any meaningful way or in any way that really matters."

"Sybil, not everybody's like you. We have friends who may not take kindly to it. People we love, whose opinions we've always valued."

"I thought you had stopped caring about such things."

"To a point. . . . " Mary trailed off and turned away for a moment with a sigh before facing her sister again. "Sybil, I'm not you. You're the strong one. You don't really care what people think, but I'm afraid I do. I've tried to put on a brave front this year, tried to laugh off the talk in London, but you can't expect me to have completely done away with who I am, with the person papa, mama and granny have always expected me to be. I want to be the best sister to you and I don't dislike Tom—truly, I don't—but I can't help the way I react to things."

Mary watched as Sybil fidgeted with the curtain, seemingly more and more ill at ease with the tension that had been bubbling up between them since last night.

"What does it matter to you what I think, anyway?" Mary added, hoping to lighten things up again.

"I'd like to know you don't disapprove," Sybil answered.

Mary rolled her eyes again but this time it was with a smile. "As if anyone's approval or lack of it ever stopped you from doing anything."

Sybil looked down at her feet, conceding the point with her soft laughter.

"My opinion of Tom hasn't changed, not significantly, anyway," Mary said. "But at the same time, I won't—I can't deny feeling a measure of . . . disillusionment." She went on, seeing the protest in Sybil's eyes. "Not at _Tom_, just at life—I'd hoped I was done having to be surprised that things turn out differently from what I expect. This is harder to accept than anything else because . . . "

Mary trailed off, immediately wishing she hadn't started to acknowledge out loud the hardest truth that Tom's revelation had forced her to face.

"Because what?" Sybil asked, brow furrowed.

Mary smiled sadly. "Because this underlines how different you and I are. How different our lives are going to be."

Sybil looked down, in her silence conceding this point as well. For all of their similarities in terms of character and for as close as they'd been as they grew up, there was no denying that she and Mary had grown up to be very different people who wanted very different things from life.

"I know we don't want the same things, but we'll always be sisters," Sybil said, grabbing onto Mary's hands. "Nothing will ever change that, and as long as we remember that, nothing else matters."

"Everything matters, darling. But I appreciate the sentiment, and I promise I will always try my best for you."

Mary pulled Sybil into a hug. Sybil held Mary tightly. Sybil hadn't considered herself a child for a number of years, but in Mary's words she truly felt as if the last piece of her childhood was slipping through her fingers, the ties that kept Sybil close to her family and her oldest sister no longer as unbreakable as they once felt.

It hadn't happened all at once, but over the course of the past year, love and marriage and a real education and work and politics had ceased being abstractions to Sybil, becoming instead actual things that might and would change her life—things that, having met Tom, she now wanted to immerse herself in fully. And perhaps because Sybil had seen her sisters grow up before her, Sybil was smart enough to know at the start of her adulthood, that the life she now envisioned for herself alongside Tom was not the life her family would necessarily choose for her.

That truth had existed as a small seed in the back of Sybil's mind for some time, but with Tom's parentage now out in the open, it had grown into an undeniable certainty most evident to the sister who had always known her best. Tom was no longer just a middle class man who'd done better than most; he was a man of low birth who had risen by his wits to stand as an equal among them, a living embodiment of everything that the worst of aristocratic society stood firmly against—and everything that stirred Sybil's passions. The moment Mary knew his true identity it was evident to her that Sybil had known all along. And in that moment Mary understood that she and her beloved baby sister already were on paths that would take them in diverging directions.

Neither seemed eager now to step away from their hug, but eventually Sybil pulled away slightly, a cheeky smile on her face.

"In the name of the sisterly affection between us that you so fear will someday be but a memory, will you do something for me?"

"What?" Mary asked, warily.

"Will you let Edith drive us to Crawley House?"

Mary rolled her head back in exasperation. "Fine!"

**XXX**

_"Please tell Mrs. Patmore that was a fine dinner, Carson," Cora said quietly as she stood from the table. "We're all a bit tired from our travels, so the conversation was slow tonight. Don't think any of it comes from displeasure with her."_

_"Thank you, my lady. She will be pleased to hear it," Carson replied._

_Cora tried to make eye contact with Robert as she, Isobel and the girls moved toward the door to head to the parlor behind Carson, but Robert still wasn't looking up from his plate. She was starting to get annoyed with him. Robert could get peevish when he got bad news, and in such moments as this, it was up to Cora to see that the gathering remain bright and pleasant. She did not mind the job—she was the hostess, after all—but she also wished to relay to Robert that he was being rather selfish. She was entitled to a reaction to the news as well but had been forced to set her feelings aside in order to keep up appearances for the staff at dinner. She and Isobel and Matthew muddled through talk of London and the upcoming garden party for the hospital, with the girls piping in occasionally even as they grew more confused by minute as to the nature of the obvious tension between Robert and Tom, neither of whom offered much to help move along the conversation. _

_As she got to the door, Cora turned back to the table one more time, but instead of Robert, her eyes landed on Tom, who seemed neither entirely uncomfortable, nor entirely at ease. He looked to her just then like the kind of man who was only ever at home in his own mind—a man like her father, the humble shopkeeper turned industry titan. Catching his eyes, Cora narrowed hers a bit as if she could see into Tom's mind by doing so. Tom smiled. It was a reassuring smile and a grateful one. It was everything Cora needed in that moment. _

What is worse than a stodgy dinner with friends? _She asked herself. _One with no friends at all.

_Cora thought of the fight Tom had offered to fight on her behalf to recover what was left of the fortune her father-in-law had, in Tom's words, stolen from her—a fight he would have waged against the interests of a friend he loved as a brother. She smiled back at him and then moved along, resolving as she walked through the hall that no matter what Robert or Violet would say she would not turn her back on him. _

_Behind her, Isobel walked silently next to Mary with Edith and Sybil behind them whispering to each other. _

_As soon as they were in the parlor, as they were all sitting down, Edith finally asked, "Mama what is the matter? Is there a quarrel between Tom and Papa? Surely, you can tell us."_

_Without answering Edith, Cora addressed Carson, who had begun pouring sherry for them. _

_"Carson, would you mind bringing some of the cherry cordial we had at tea time? It was quite delicious, and I believe Mrs. Crawley would enjoy it. You can serve the girls when you return."_

_"Certainly, my lady," Carson said as he handed Cora her sherry glass. _

_Edith seemed a bit confused as to why her mother was ignoring her so plainly, but Mary saw the ruse for what it was and realized that whatever was troubling her father was evidently something that could not be discussed in front of the help._

_Also eager to know the truth, Sybil spoke up. "Mama, you did say you would explain after dinner. Please tell us." _

_Cora and Isobel exchanged looks. After setting her sherry down on the table next to her, Cora took a deep breath and began, "As you know Mrs. Patmore has been having some trouble with her eyes. Your father and I have decided to send her to a specialist in London for an operation."_

_"Is it dangerous?" Sybil asked. _

_"Not at all, dear," Isobel said. "It is quite a common procedure. The more dangerous option in this situation would be to leave her as is, as she would lose her sight completely. It is very kind what your parents are doing."_

_Cora smiled and held herself back from rolling her eyes at Isobel's slightly patronizing tone. _

_"When is she to go?" Edith asked. _

_"As soon as we can make the arrangements," Cora replied. _

_"But what does this have to do with papa and Tom?" Mary asked. _

_"Well," Cora said, "we will need someone to take Mrs. Patmore's place in the kitchen while she is being cared for, and Cousin Isobel has kindly agreed to ask her cook to fill in. She, Tom and Matthew and the Crawley House staff will have their meals with us until Mrs. Patmore is healthy again."_

_Looking back on it later, Sybil couldn't quite believe she managed not to gasp or react is some other noticeable way when she realized exactly what her mother was saying. But once she did, it was hard not to guess what had come over her father. Cora having maintained her composure throughout dinner and telling them all now with such calm, it was clear to Sybil that her mother's reaction had been entirely unlike Robert's—a fact for which she was grateful and made her love her mother all the more. _

_Sybil peeked at both of her sisters, both still confused as to what the issue was, and then at Isobel who presumably would take it from there. Isobel looked back at Sybil, but only for a brief moment, not wanting to reveal to the rest of the party that Sybil already knew what she was about to say. _

_"Our cook is a wonderful woman," Isobel said with a bright smile. "She also happens to be Tom's mother."_

_The shock in Mary and Edith's faces was easy to see. The shock was such, in fact, that neither turned to Sybil immediately after Isobel spoke, momentarily forgetting, it seemed, that she would be the one most directly affected by the revelation. It was Cora's voice that shook them out of their own reactions. _

_"This won't change anything," she said, answering the unasked question. "Tom will remain a member of the family while Mrs. Branson is here. Obviously, it will be a delicate matter to handle with the staff, but I am confident that we can follow Isobel and Reginald's good example."_

_Isobel smiled, grateful for Cora's understanding._

_Before anything else could be said, Carson stepped back into the room with the cordial Cora had requested on a silver tray. All three girls looked to Cora and the look on their mother's eyes made it quite plain that the discussion, at least for the time being, was over. Cora supposed that she might have talked things over with Robert before telling the girls—and before assuring them as to how the family would behave—but she felt confident, despite his initial reaction, that he would go along with her dictum. And anyway, making hay of it would just create gossip, and she knew how Robert and Violet felt about that._

_The room remained silent as Carson served Isobel the cordial, then returned to the table at the far end of the room for sherry for the girls. Sybil took her glass from him and saw the corners of his lips turn slightly upward seeing her smiling up at him. Sybil wondered how he—in so many ways even more of a stickler for tradition than her father—would react when a headstrong and proud woman like Claire Branson stepped into his servants hall. _

How will he react if Tom and I go to see her in the kitchen_, she thought. _Indeed, how will anyone downstairs react to the whole thing?

_Sybil took a long drink of her sherry, keeping her eyes on the clock as Cora and Isobel began talking of the hospital once again. Not wanting to raise the suspicion that her departure was related to the evening's big news, Sybil waited as long as she reasonably could before leaving to search for Tom, whom she knew would not have remained in the dining room with her father and Matthew, not on this night. _

_Three minutes passed. _

_Then five._

_Then ten._

_Finally, when fifteen minutes had gone by, she stood to go, telling her mother she was going to her room to fetch the book she was currently reading. If she noticed the eyes of her sisters on her as she took her leave, she chose not to acknowledge them._

**XXX**

Despite Mary's misgivings, the trip to Crawley House went off without incident. The smoothness of the ride, however, didn't stop Mary from holding tightly onto her seat with one hand and onto Sybil even more tightly with the other. Each time the motor approached a turn, Mary's grip would get tighter still and Sybil would let out a yelp that would make Edith roll her eyes.

But even Mary's protestations couldn't dampen Edith's mood. This was the first time she'd been allowed past the gates without Tom or Pratt. What was more, while in London, on a trip to Selfridges with Rosamund, her aunt had indulged her with a pair of motoring gloves that she'd since been dying to try. The feel of the wheel in her hands made her feel positively giddy. The moments in which Edith felt in control of her own life were rare. This was one.

When the motor came to a stop in front of the house, Edith turned toward the back seat and gave her sisters a knowing look. "Dare I ask if there are any complaints?"

"I will complain about the bruises I'm likely to have on my arm tomorrow," Sybil said, rubbing the spot where Mary had been holding on to her.

Mary rolled her eyes. "I distinctly remember seeing you doing the same to Matthew when you arrived home after riding in the motor with her for the first time."

"She didn't actually know how to drive then," Sybil responded, hopping out of the vehicle, with Mary on her tails.

Edith came around the motor to meet them on the other side. "So will you be riding or walking back?"

"I suppose that could have been worse," Mary said airily, moving toward the door.

Edith turned to Sybil. "I believe that's the best compliment she's ever paid me."

Sybil giggled and pulled Edith along as Mary knocked on the door, which Moseley opened a few seconds later.

"Good afternoon, Lady Mary," he said, stepping aside to let her in.

"Is Mrs. Crawley in? We've just stopped by to say hello," she said.

"She is. I'll let her know you're here. Mr. Branson is home as well."

"Oh! I assumed he would be working today," Mary said, looking back to Edith and Sybil.

"He's here to oversee Mr. Bromidge, who is putting in the house telephone," Moseley answered. "Mr. Crawley stayed home from work as well, but he went out with the estate manager, Mr. Mason, just now."

Sure enough, as soon as they approached the parlor, Tom stepped into the hall, with a short, stout man. Tom's eyes widened a bit when he saw all three Crawley daughters approaching.

Moseley, not missing a beat, immediately gestured toward the parlor entryway. "If you'll kindly proceed and have a seat, my ladies, I'll let Mrs. Crawley know you're here. May I get some tea?"

"That would be lovely, Moseley," Mary said. Then, knowing her sisters were watching her expectantly, Mary turned to Tom. "Will you join us after you've finished with the telephone business?"

Tom smiled, as always a bit in awe of how self-possessed Mary always was, regardless of the circumstances. "Certainly. Mr. Bromidge is finished, aren't you sir?"

The man nodded. "I just need to make some notes."

"You'll be coming to Downton Abbey soon, won't you?" Sybil asked him. "We're so looking forward to it. What an exciting business to be in."

"You must be expanding every day," Edith said.

"Ah, we are, milady, but that brings its problems. Training up men for the work when many have no aptitude. Ha, I can't even find a secretary who can keep pace at the moment."

Sybil eyes brightened and she exchanged an excited glance with Tom. "What?"

"It's hard with a new concept," Mr. Bromidge went on. "Too old, they can't change. Too young, and they've no experience."

"But have you filled the post yet?" Sybil asked eagerly. "Because I know just the woman."

"Well, she must hurry up. We'll, er, close the list tomorrow night."

"You'll have her application, I promise."

Sybil and Tom's eyes met again, and Tom grinned at her excitement.

Mr. Bromidge moved toward the door, where he'd left his briefcase, and Mary, Edith, Tom and Sybil filed into the parlor, but while Edith and Mary sat, Sybil remained standing.

"Are you not staying?" Edith asked jokingly.

"Actually, I don't think I will," Sybil said anxiously. "You heard Mr. Bromidge. He must have Gwen's application tomorrow. There isn't a moment to lose!"

"But we've only just arrived," Edith said. "What will we say to Cousin Isobel?"

"Don't bother, Edith, there will be no talking her out of it now," Mary said with a smile, the truth of her words making Tom laugh lightly. "But, Sybil, be sure not to disrupt Gwen's work," Mary added.

"Oh, I'll write the letter myself. I've done one for her before."

"Well, do you want me to drive you back?" Edith asked.

"You drove here? How excellent!" Tom exclaimed, looking at Edith proudly. "How did it feel?"

"Just perfect—well, the _feeling _of driving was perfect. The motor itself not quite, if I'm honest. The clutch still sticks a bit for me, but it was better today than it's been at any time before."

"It'll come," he said, winking. Looking at Mary and Sybil, still standing next to him, "And what did the passengers think?"

"We're here in one piece," Sybil said, with a teasing tone. "But I really should start on my way back now. Do make my excuses with Cousin Isobel."

"Are you leaving already, my dear?"

They all turned to the door, to see Isobel herself come through it.

"You know well the work of women's advancement is never done," Tom said, with a smile. "Sybil's off to write an application for Miss Dawson to work for Mr. Bromidge."

Sybil nodded eagerly. "He's looking for a secretary, you see—someone who works hard but is eager to learn a new trade. I do believe Gwen would be quite perfect."

"I'm sorry you can't stay to chat, but I won't delay you. Do walk her out, please, Tom."

Tom and Sybil walked back out of the room and through the hall, past Mr. Bromidge and Moseley, to the front door. Tom opened it, and the two stepped out.

"Will you tell Gwen about the opportunity?" Tom asked.

"I don't think I will," Sybil said. "She was so disappointed the last time, but it does seem perfect for her, doesn't it?"

"To start in a new industry would certainly be easier for her than for one more set in her ways already, and I can't imagine anyone who would work harder."

"Nor can I! Oh, I do hope he gives her a chance."

They'd been making their way slowly down the front walk and stopped and turned toward one another as soon as they reached the street, both of them smiling a bit shyly.

"I suppose this visit means Edith and Mary aren't ready to cast me off," Tom said, looking down.

"They would never!"

Tom looked at Sybil with skepticism in his eyes.

Sybil smiled. "Well, not now when they know you so well." After a beat, she added more quietly, "Papa will come around as well, you'll see."

"Please don't raise your hopes too much on that account. I don't mean to speak ill of him, but I have wounded his pride, and I believe it will be sometime before he is no longer angry with me. He's not likely to ever treat me as he did before."

"I won't deny that he's stubborn, but once he's had some time, he _will_ remember what a good person you are, how you've helped him and how he enjoyed your company in the past."

Tom smiled at her optimism, but remained unconvinced himself.

Seeing the doubt in his eyes, Sybil daringly—knowing they were out in plain view for others to see—took his hand and interlaced their fingers. "But just as I told you last night as regards his reaction. None of it matters, not between you and me."

He squeezed her hand back, trying to convey even in that small gesture, all the love he felt for her.

"You best get going. Gwen's future awaits."

Sybil dropped his hand, still smiling, and headed on her way.

"Sybil?" He called out to her after she'd taken a few steps.

She turned.

"Perhaps you ought not include the fact that she works in service," he said. "These past 24 hours have been a reminder of how foolishly people can react to that sort of knowledge about someone.

She smiled and nodded, and turned to go once again.

**XXX**

_When she set out in search of Tom, Sybil first went to the billiard room, but finding it empty, headed first toward the drawing room, then toward the library. That was where she found him, standing in the middle of the room looking around as if for the last time._

_"Tom?"_

_He turned upon hearing her voice, and the relief that came over him, after the evening's earlier trials, was evident on its face. Sybil never wanted anyone dear to her to feel pain of any kind, but she couldn't help but love the way he responded to seeing her, the way he silently let her know just how important she was to him. She walked in quickly and, dismissing all propriety, launched herself into his arms. They held each other tightly for what felt to each of them like an eternity, but was only a matter of minutes. Remembering themselves, they pulled away a bit awkwardly, Tom taking care to put a few feet between them, lest Robert or Cora find them in too close a proximity and kick him out of the family for good._

_"Has he been just terrible?" She asked._

_"Your father? No, not terrible—at least, nothing I wasn't prepared for. He is angry, but it's . . . well, he wishes I hadn't kept it from him. He believes it evident of my ill opinion of him and his lot."_

_Sybil rolled her eyes. "I dare say I am not surprised at him trying to have it both ways, but mama did say just now that nothing would change, that you'd still be treated as a member of the family."_

_Tom smiled. "That's kind of her."_

_Sybil's brow furrowed. "It's not kind, Tom. It's the decent and correct thing to do. You've done nothing wrong, unless we are to think your having been born to parents who were poor is wrong, which is ridiculous. You had no choice, and anyway your mother is a perfectly good person. I will make my opinion to him known as frequently as necessary for him to change his mind."_

_Tom stepped forward again and grabbed her by the shoulders. "I don't doubt your solidarity, Sybil. Thank you. But I don't want you and your father to also be one the outs."_

_She smiled, not at all embarrassed at how riled up she could get on his behalf. "All right. I will say, though, that in a way I am glad that they all know now, just how far you've come."_

_"Me too," he said._

_Tom dropped his hands from her shoulders and, not able to stop himself, lightly traced the fingertips of his right hand along her hairline down to her ear, behind which he tucked a stray curl. Sybil held her breath and wondered if he'd give her the thing she'd been dreaming about for some time now. A kiss._

_But Tom's mind was too full for such a gesture at this moment, and when he spoke next he revealed one of the many things that had been roiling his mind over the course of the evening._

_"I hate to point this out, but I fear I must. This news might, um . . . complicate things."_

_"What do you mean?"_

_Tom swallowed. He knew that she knew. And he knew that she knew that he knew. But they had never spoken of their future together aloud, not really._

_"You and I . . . There might be an objection now from your parents."_

_Sybil shook her head. "No, I told you. Mama said—"_

_"Sybil, it's one thing to allow me to sit down with the family at dinner and quite another to have their permission to court you."_

_"Why would they object?" _

_"Mary turned her nose up at the idea of a marriage to Matthew, who is middle class and will inherit your father's title. Those expectations aren't hers alone. They have been encouraged in her by your parents. Do you honestly think they don't expect the same for you?"_

_Sybil felt her breath catch. However dearly she loved her family, now that she and Tom had come this far, there was no going back. Marrying him—marrying whomever she liked, in fact—was not something she would negotiate with her parents. Not anymore. _

_"I don't care about what they say. You can't believe I'll hold myself to their wishes. And anyway Mary doesn't dislike Matthew, on the contrary."_

_Tom looked down to the floor, filling with something like relief and pride in her. "Still," he said looking up. "You'll not want to be cast out, will you?"_

_Sybil stepped forward again and took his hands in hers. "If it means being with you, fetch me the matches and I'll burn the bridge myself."_

_Tom laughed, even as he felt he might cry of happiness. "Let's not get ahead of ourselves. We can cross that bridge—and burn it, if the occasion calls for it—when we come to it, but there's time yet to hope that we won't have to."_

_Sybil and Tom continued to look into one another's eyes for a long moment, sharing between them a silent promise, when the footsteps of someone approaching the library caused them to step away from one another._

_Seconds later, Alfred stepped into the room. "Oh, excuse me, Lady Sybil, Mr. Branson. Mr. Crawley asked me to fetch some papers on the desk for him that he's to discuss with his lordship."_

_"Don't mind us, Alfred," Sybil said. "I was just coming to fetch a book. We'll be on our way back to the parlor now."_

_Sybil walked over to the nearest shelf and picked the first book she laid eyes on, a copy of The Portrait of a Lady, then gestured to Tom to follow her out of the room. She was smiling—they both were—but she didn't look at him the rest of the way to the parlor believing that whatever trace of the blush that was likely to still be on her cheeks was probably noticeable enough already._

**XXX**

"And?"

"What do you mean, _'and_,' mama?" Robert asked. He'd been pacing around in Violet's bedroom, where she sat reclined on her bed as Cora, on a chair next to the bed, relayed the news of the night before. He'd stopped short at his mother's non-reaction.

Violet looked between Cora and Robert. "You've told me that Tom's mother is Isobel's cook and you seem to be expecting some sort of response, so I'm waiting for whatever it is I'm supposed to respond to."

Cora's brow furrowed in confusion. "Do you mean to say you don't mind?"

"Mind who his mother is? Why should I mind—is she like yours at all? Because I dare say _would_ mind that very much."

Cora rolled her eyes but kept her disbelief to herself, not wanting to stir a quarrel if Violet wasn't going to do so herself.

Violet reached for her tea cup on her night table as Robert started pacing again. "Oh, sit down, Robert, for heaven's sake."

"I know you, mama," Robert said. "Stop pretending you don't have some interest in knowing where Tom really comes from, lest I start thinking your fever has muddled your brain."

"What exactly are you so upset about?" Violet asked. "So his mother is coming to cook at Downton. I should think we'd all be delighted. I can't be the only one looking forward to a break from Mrs. Patmore's dry fish."

"Well, he lied to us for starters," Robert replied.

"Oh, he did not such thing. He didn't volunteer the information, which is different. Did you ever actually _ask_ him about his mother?"

"Did you?" Cora asked incredulous.

"I didn't have to! In my nearly 80 years of life I've never met a gentleman in the peerage who did not enjoy going on at great length about who his parents are. Anyone who doesn't do so has no parentage to speak of."

"So you mean to say, you _assumed_ he was working class?" Cora asked.

"I'm rather marveled that you did not do the same. After all, Matthew himself is not a gentleman—not by our standards. Why would you think Tom was?"

Cora looked up to watch Robert as he watched his mother take a sip of her tea as if nothing at all had changed. Turning to Cora, he said in disbelief, "I'm flabbergasted."

"You're always flabbergasted when things don't happen as you expect," his wife replied with a laugh. Turning to Violet, she added, "Although I am surprised _you _are being so forgiving."

"I do have my moments," Violet said, taking another sip of her tea. "But this is not a matter of forgiveness. Tom is proud and ambitious, and he thinks he knows better than all of us, but he's also eager to be liked. His attitude is a product of his age more than his station. You're merely surprised I've come to know and understand him better than the both of you. But you're also forgetting an important piece of the equation."

"Pray, tell, what's that? Robert asked.

"Among the three of us I'm the only one who has raised a son."

"Must it always come back to that?" Robert asked with a sigh.

"No, but in this case, that's the difference. You have three beautiful daughters, but girls are inherently different from boys, especially at this age. When you see Tom, you don't see a young man, you see what you wish you had. You made him into the son you wanted and ascribed qualities to him your own son would have had. You say you're shocked to find he isn't who he said he was, but the truth is you're shocked he isn't who you wanted him to be."

"So we were fooled by our own desire for an heir," Robert said. "How positively Freudian."

"Not an heir, a_ son_. You've always had an heir, but you never raised a boy. I have. His conduct is not surprising in the least."

"Well, I maintain, Tom himself should have told us at the start. And allowing things to go on as they have is all well and good, but it doesn't change the fact that we have to find a way to tell the staff. How do you suppose we do that?"

"By telling them," Violet said, as if such a breach of everyday conduct would be the most natural thing for the likes of Carson to accept. "What are they going to say? My bet is most of them thought as I did and won't be surprised at all. Really, Robert not everything is an complicated as you hope it will be."

"Your mother's right, dear. They have a job to do. They'll manage," Cora said.

"Besides," Violet added, "do you really want to have another reason for Isobel to be as exhaustingly righteous as you know she likes to be?"

"So the son of the cook will be at the dinner table with us," Robert said.

"The brother of your heir," Cora corrected.

Violet looked back and forth between Cora and Robert, happy that the momentary squabble had been nipped in the bud. "I do have one lingering question," she said.

"And what's that, mama?" Robert asked.

"Do you suppose an Irish cook knows how to make a Charlotte Russe?"

Cora laughed. "We can only hope."

In truth, that wasn't Violet's real question, but Violet figured Robert and Cora had enough to deal with now to be burdened by her suspicions regarding their youngest daughter and the feelings Sybil might have for the young man they had just been discussing.


	29. Chapter 29

_I stayed up waaaay past my bedtime to finish this. Enjoy!_

* * *

It wasn't until several days after they had learned the truth that Cora and Robert called Mrs. Hughes and Carson into the library and told them of what they had arranged for Mrs. Patmore, as well as who would be taking her place, whose mother the replacement cook was and their expectation that the staff's treatment of Mr. Branson not change in the slightest. As their employers concluded the meeting, Mrs. Hughes watched Carson from the side of her eyes, wondering what lay behind his stone-faced expression. Having known him all these years, she could sometimes discern his moods despite his relentless stoicism. But right now he wasn't giving her much. She could only imagine what might be going through his mind. Carson and prouder members of the staff had welcomed Mr. Crawley and Mr. Branson only reluctantly. This new knowledge wasn't going to help things.

When the two had reached the top of the stairs leading to the servants hall, Carson finally spoke.

"I will relay the message to Mrs. Patmore if you send Anna down and take care to let all the girls know that we'll be discussing the arrangements for Mrs. Patmore's absence at dinner. I don't want any of them sneaking off to the village. Everyone should hear this at the same time, Mrs. Hughes, so there may be no room for misinterpretation of his lordship's instructions."

Mrs. Hughes nodded in agreement and was about to turn to go find the maids, whom she knew were making up the bedrooms at this hour of the morning, when she saw him take pause before going down the stairs. She watched him for a moment before asking, "What do you make of it all, Mr. Carson?"

"Well, it's no surprise to me that the family would be so helpful to a loyal member of the staff."

"And Mr. Branson?"

"Raising a young man of low birth as his son so that he may have better opportunities certainly distinguishes the late Dr. Reginald Crawley as equal to the name he shares with his lordship."

Mrs. Hughes smirked but held her tongue, having grown used to Carson's blandishments regarding the family for which they both worked.

"As to the young man," Carson continued, "it certainly explains his insolence."

At this, Mrs. Hughes had to speak. It was one thing for Carson to praise the Crawleys more than she might have thought was their due, but it was quite another for Carson to find excuses to cast aspersions on someone who had gone out of his way to support the staff.

"Insolence? With respect, Mr. Carson, Mr. Branson maybe opinionated and certainly he speaks his mind as freely and openly as any man who is given the opportunity, but he is no more insolent than I am."

"I'll acknowledge this is not the first time we have disagreed, Mrs. Hughes, nor is it likely to be the last, but it would seem we have different definitions of the word."

"I should say so. When Lord Merton's son used to throw his cordial on the footmen as a child and ignore her ladyship's reprimands? _That _was insolence. Mr. Branson has been most respectful and helpful to us, Mr. Carson, and if you choose not to remind the staff about that at dinner, I will do so myself."

Carson sighed. "Very well, Mrs. Hughes. No need to get worked up."

Mrs. Hughes nodded curtly and went on her way. Carson couldn't help but smile as he watched her retreating form.

_Mr. Branson has little idea_, Carson thought, _of the ally he has in Mrs. Hughes, and certainly he doesn't know how fortunate that makes him_.

Carson continued on down the stairs, and as he got to the bottom, he saw Daisy coming out of the kitchen.

"Daisy," he said, "run and find Mrs. Patmore. His lordship wants to see her in the library."

Daisy's eyes widened in fear. "His Lordship wants Mrs. Patmore to go up to the library?"

"That is what I said," Carson replied.

Daisy momentarily wondered if what she knew Mrs. Patmore had long feared was finally coming to pass. Carson raised his eyebrows at her, and she quickly turned back toward the kitchen to fetch Mrs. Patmore. When the cook emerged with a worried-looking Daisy on her heels, Mrs. Patmore was wringing a towel with her hands.

"Come along, Mrs. Patmore," Carson said.

"But, um . . . Mr. Carson. I, I need to get luncheon started," she said nervously, believing that the meeting would be nothing more than a sacking.

"You have nothing to fear, Mrs. Patmore, now come along," Carson said, starting up the stairs.

The cook threw a worried glance at Daisy, who shrugged helplessly in response. Seeing no way to stall the inevitable, Mrs. Patmore followed, trying to hold her nerves in check.

Because her domain was the kitchen, it wasn't often that Mrs. Patmore had reason to be upstairs and as she walked behind Carson now, she pursed her lips in an effort to keep her tears at bay. Downton Abbey was a grand house but despite how long she had served here, she was always awed by its beauty. She wondered if this would be the last time that she would see these sights.

As they arrived at the library, so did Anna, from the opposite direction.

"What are you doing here?" Mrs. Patmore asked her.

"I was just about to ask you the same question," Anna responded.

"Come along, please," Carson said. He stepped through the doors and announced them with his usual dignified tone. "Mrs. Patmore, my lord."

Robert, who had been sitting at his desk, stood and approached the group.

Unable to contain her anxiety, Mrs. Patmore spoke up, "Your Lordship, I know things haven't been quite right for a while, but I can assure you—"

"Come in, Mrs Patmore," Robert said, gesturing for her to step forward.

Mrs. Patmore moved tentatively toward her employer.

"I promise you, milord, if I could just be allowed a bit more time—"

"Mrs. Patmore," Robert said, interrupting, "I've not asked you here to give you your notice."

"Haven't you?" She asked, bewildered.

"No," Robert replied. "I understand you've had some trouble with your sight."

"That's just it!" she cried. "I know I could manage better if only—"

"Please, Mrs. Patmore . . ." Robert tried to continue over her hysterics, rubbing his forehead with his fingers in the process.

"Let him speak!" Anna said, somewhat sternly, hoping get the cook to pull herself together long enough for Robert to say his piece. Turning back to him, Anna added, "Beg pardon, milord."

"Don't apologise," Robert said. "Now, on Dr. Clarkson's recommendation, I'm sending you up to London to see an eye specialist at Moorfields. Anna will go with you, and you'll stay with my sister Rosamund in her new house in Belgrave Square."

Mrs. Patmore couldn't believe her ears. She turned to Anna, as if to assure herself that she'd heard correctly. Awash in disbelief, Mrs. Patmore said, "I'm afraid I'm going to have to sit in your presence, milord."

"Of course," he said, quietly.

She stumbled backwards not really knowing where to sit until Anna took her arm and guided her to the sofa. After a moment of trying to calm her racing heart, the logistics of what Robert was proposing became clear in her head. "B—but how will you get on here?" She asked, uncertainly.

Hoping to further ease her concern Robert sat down next to her. "Well, Mrs. Crawley is lending us her cook," Robert said, glancing up at Carson momentarily, then back to Mrs. Patmore. "She's coming over tomorrow before you leave. You'll be good enough to show her how things work."

"Are the Crawleys to starve while I'm away?" Mrs. Patmore asked.

"They'll eat here every evening," Robert assured. "Now, my sister's butler will look after you. He's very nice." Robert then looked to Anna, "Anna, you won't mind a return visit to London?"

"No, milord. Thank you. It'll be an adventure."

"One with a happy ending, I hope," Robert said, standing.

With Anna's help, Mrs. Patmore stood as well, and the two women, along with Carson, took their leave to head back to the servants hall.

"Part of me is inclined to think myself dreaming," Robert heard Mrs. Patmore say as they crossed into the hall and he chuckled.

The servants had a hand in just about everything that happened in the house, but it was easy to forget how intricately their lives were interwoven with those of the family. A fact that was now more clear to Robert than ever. Mrs. Patmore's declining vision had been the butterfly, whose flapping wings had started the hurricane that ultimately had left his friendship with Tom a pile of rubble. Time would repair things—at least, that's what everyone else kept telling him. And Robert supposed that he'd made more of the sting left by the hit his pride had taken than perhaps was necessary, but even just a few days removed, he couldn't do anything about his reaction now. The situation was what it was. Robert could make Mrs. Patmore's eye problems go away, but what her blindness had led to could not be so easily dealt with—not when all Robert wished was to go back and pretend none of it had ever happened.

**XXX**

That evening, staff members began to gather in the servants hall after the family had finished dinner and been served their wine in the drawing room. Upstairs, there was no need to wonder where the staff had all gone, as Cora and Robert had told the girls about the pending announcement. Once all were present, Carson stood at the head of the table, with Mrs. Hughes next to him on his right, to address the crowd.

"As some of you are likely to have heard by now," he began, "his Lordship has arranged for Mrs. Patmore to have a corrective operation on her eyes. She and Anna will be leaving for London tomorrow on the 11 o'clock train. I expect us all to do our best to make their absence invisible upstairs and down."

"And who will be cooking in her place?" Alfred asked from the end of the table.

Carson glanced over at Mrs. Hughes briefly, and she gave a slight nod of encouragement, so he went on. "Mrs. Crawley has been kind enough to offer her cook to serve as replacement while Mrs. Patmore is gone and unable to work. It will only be a few days. She, Mr. Crawley, Mr. Branson and the rest of the Crawley House staff will be having their meals with us in that time."

Knowing that Alfred had paid several visits to Crawley House to see Ivy, Anna turned to him and asked, "You've met her, haven't you, Alfred? Is she very nice?"

"I reckon she is," he answered.

Seeing that it was Alfred's intention to say more, Mrs. Hughes spoke up. "There is one more thing," she said, looking to Carson.

Carson nodded and spoke again. "The cook's name is Mrs. Claire Branson. If you're wondering—I'm sure all of you are—this is not a coincidence. She is Mr. Branson's mother."

There was no audible gasp, but the mood in the room did shift as everyone began to look around to see if there was anyone in the crowd who might have known.

"And before any of you start," Carson continued, "despite this new information, Mr. Branson remains a member of the family. Mr. Matthew's father, Dr. Reginald Crawley, is a grandson of the third Earl of Grantham and as such a distant son of this house. He adopted Mr. Branson as his own and his wishes will be carried out. Those are his lordship's orders."

"You mean to say we've been serving the son of a cook, a person no better than us?" O'Brien asked indignant.

"You've been serving the brother of the next Earl of Grantham and a guest of this house as is our duty," Carson said, his booming voice echoing across the room. "This is not a negotiable request, Miss O'Brien."

"I should think it easy for you, Miss O'Brien," Mrs. Hughes put in. "Seeing as you don't have to serve him at all, only mind her ladyship, yourself and your own business here with us."

"Mr. Branson is a member of the family," Carson repeated for good measure. "We owe to him just as much as to Mr. Crawley our return to this house, and our increase in wages. _Mrs._ Branson will serve alongside us and be given the respect the position merits."

Mrs. Patmore gave a snort. "This lot respect a cook? Good luck with that!"

"That is the end of the discussion," Carson said with a finality that no one dared question. He sat down and started in on his dinner, the cue for others to do the same. As the rest of the staff did so, Mrs. Patmore, Daisy and the others in the kitchen staff headed back into the kitchen to have their dinner.

"Did you have any idea?" Gwen asked Alfred, who, it was clear, had not had an inkling. Gwen herself, despite her closeness to Sybil, was just as shocked to learn the information.

"None at all," Alfred answered, still a bit in shock to have been so close to the situation and never have suspected. "Ivy calls her 'Mrs. Connelly.' It always seemed to me that they were all very close, but I never would have assumed."

"Who would, what with him putting on airs like that," Thomas said with a sneer.

"_I_ could have told you," O' Brien said.

"No, you couldn't," Bates said with a bit of an eye roll. "The Crawleys polished him up well, and he's terribly clever. No one could tell."

"Please," O'Brien continued, "I could smell it on him from the start."

"You could do no such thing!" Mrs. Hughes said sternly. "And I believe Mr. Carson said that would be the end of the discussion."

For the remainder of the servants' dinner, at least, it was.

**XXX**

Sometime later, when the family had started making their way up to their rooms to bed, Sybil's bell rang in the servants hall. Anna stood from the table to answer, but Gwen quickly stopped her.

"I'll go," she said.

"Are you sure?" Anna asked.

"Yes," Gwen said. "Continue your conversation," she added with a gesture toward Mr. Bates, who smiled kindly in response.

Gwen was always happy to do a little bit of extra work if it meant Anna could have extra time with a man that Gwen knew Anna had grown very fond of and might actually be in love with. What was more, in this particular case, Gwen wanted to talk Sybil about this new revelation regarding Tom.

Despite Mrs. Hughes and Carson's instructions, the staff continued to whisper about it over the course of the evening. There was some conjecture as to when Robert and Cora had found out—with some assuming the family had always known and others suggesting that if the family had known all along, the truth would have wound its way downstairs long before now. Thomas, in his cynicism regarding his employers and their like, offered that if the family had known, they would have announced it to the staff ("How else could we know how charitably they were behaving toward one of us?") and they wouldn't have allowed Tom to play a role in the running of the estate.

Whatever the truth was, Gwen felt certain _Sybil_ had known all along and was curious as to her feelings about it being made known to the staff. She also figured that Sybil would be at least somewhat concerned about how Mrs. Branson would be received and Gwen wanted to reassure her.

When Gwen reached Sybil's room, she knocked on the door and stepped through. Sybil was already out of her dress and corset and in her nightclothes, suggesting that Gwen was right to intercept Anna. Clearly, Sybil had rung so they'd have a chance to talk.

"Any word from Mr. Bromage?" Sybil asked eagerly, standing from the seat of her vanity.

"No, milady, not yet," Gwen replied.

Although it had been Sybil's intention not to tell Gwen about the opportunity lest she get her hopes up then dashed once again, when Sybil arrived back at the house after having first met the man at Crawley House and heard of his need for secretary, Sybil couldn't contain her excitement and found Gwen so they could write the letter together. Because Mr. Bromidge seemed so anxious to hire a secretary, Sybil expected a response right away, but so far they had heard nothing.

"Well, tomorrow is the day he arrives to install the telephone," Sybil said, coming over to the bed, where they both sat. "I will ask him what's happened."

Gwen smiled but said nothing, not wanting to get Sybil's own hopes up too high. It was clear to the young maid that her friend was starting to take the rejections personally.

"Speaking of goings on tomorrow," Gwen said. "Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes let us know tonight that Mr. Branson's mother will be serving as cook while Mrs. Patmore's getting her eyes fixed up."

"Mama said they would be making the announcement tonight," Sybil said. "How did everyone react? Do you think they will be very mean to her? She's a terribly kind person."

"I'm sure she will do just fine," Gwen said with a reassuring smile.

"I do hope she is welcomed," Sybil said, still seeming a bit concerned.

"Well you know how some of that lot downstairs can be," Gwen said, "but I reckon it will be all right. Mrs. Hughes and Mr. Carson won't take any cheek from anyone—they made that much clear."

"I'm sure Tom's even more worried than I am," Sybil said.

"So you've met the woman?"

"Oh, yes! I've had tea with her several times at Crawley House. She is very kind, I assure you, and a fine cook, from what I've had of her meals."

"I've no doubt she is kind. Certainly, Mr. Branson speaks well of her—that is to say, his being such a kind person himself must be a reflection on his mother."

Sybil smiled. "It is."

"Haughty Miss O'Brien said she was not surprised to hear the news of his parentage, but of course, that's typical of her to say something like that. I doubt she knew any better than the rest of us, his being so accomplished and all."

Sybil's eyes brightened. "Gwen, now that you know where he comes from, you should look to him as an example. If he can go as far as he has on his merits, surely, you can too! We just have to wait for the right opportunity. I really do think Mr. Bromage will respond positively."

"You know, it's funny," Gwen said with a soft laugh. "I do believe Mr. Branson said as much to me when he was helping me prepare for being interviewed. I had told him that I wished I knew someone who had gone from the working class to the middle class, and he offered himself as an example. I thought that he was just being kind, not that he actually meant he himself was a working-class person."

Sybil smiled. "I know we English tend to ascribe certain qualities and sensibilities to our birth, but the truth is, Gwen, Tom really does represent the idea that respectability and a good position is something that one can earn not just be born with."

"Whatever happens with me, it is nice to know that that's possible," Gwen said in response. After a moment's thought, she added, "As to his mother, well, I believe things may be a bit awkward at the start, but eventually people will come around."

**XXX**

As Sybil and Gwen chatted upstairs, the staff started making their way to the attic to bed. Daisy, who had been organizing the pantry to make everything easier for Mrs. Branson to find, was heading out of the kitchen, when Mrs. Patmore grabbed her by the arm and pulled her back into the pantry to ask her to make sure the family didn't enjoy Mrs. Branson's food too much. Daisy's brow furrowed in confusion.

"You want me to spoil things?" She asked, her eyes widening.

"I'm not saying poison them. Just make sure they don't find her food all that agreeable."

"By poisoning it?"

Mrs. Patmore looked around in case anyone was still around to hear. "Will you stop that!" She urged.

"You don't want it to taste nice?" Daisy asked again, not quite believing what Mrs. Patmore was asking.

"I want them to be glad when I get back. That's all."

Daisy nodded nervously, then walked away hoping that Mrs. Patmore wouldn't call her back to give her more of that kind of instruction.

Mrs. Patmore sighed, knowing that what she was asking was foolish, but even now, she didn't want to take any chances. What else was she supposed to do? If she had to leave Downton, where would she go?

**XXX**

In another kitchen, not so far away, another set of servants was discussing what life would be like for them in the coming week.

"So it's just luncheon and dinner, then?" Moseley asked Claire.

"Yes. Mrs. Crawley thought at first, they might ask me to stay so I'd be up early for breakfast, but apparently, they believe the kitchen maid can handle that."

"That's Daisy," Ivy put in. "I talked with her at the servants ball and I've seen her out and about in the village. She's nice, though Alfred says Mrs. Patmore abuses her a bit. Nothing terrible, mind. Just a bit too cross with her now and again."

"Fears for her job, I'd wager," Moseley said.

"And what did Alfred say, just now," Claire said raising her eyebrows at Ivy. "Not like him to come by so late in the evening—and I think I'd prefer if he keeps his visits to when the sun's out."

Ivy blushed. "Oh, it was nothing. They were told about you being Mr. Branson's mum tonight is all and he wanted to know why I'd not told him before."

"And what did you say?" Asked Claire, curious about this. She'd never had an explicit conversation with Ivy about anything beyond asking to be called by her maiden name when she was out, knowing that Isobel had made things more or less clear with her.

"I told him it wasn't his business. Just 'cause he's my sweetheart doesn't mean I've to tell him everything."

Moseley laughed softly. "And what did he say to that?"

"He grumbled a bit, of course, but conceded I had a point. He just wondered why all the secrecy, since Mr. Branson always struck him as a bit proud—in a good way, y'know. Alfred likes Mr. Branson very much. Mr. Branson chats him up when he's serving and likes the idea of Alfred being a chef one day even though Alfred's mum frowns on it. Anyway, they're all a bit worked up about the whole thing, knowing Mr. Branson's roots and all now. And they might be a bit cagey tomorrow, but Alfred reckons that'll pass. They're a nice lot, really. He wanted me to tell you that, Mrs. Branson, so you were prepared."

Claire smiled. "That was kind of him, but do mind what I said. Or do you want me telling your parents in my next letter?"

Ivy's brow furrowed. "All right. It's been just the once, though, and it's bad enough mum still wishes I'd be rid of him. In her mind a proper housekeeper, as she intends me to be, has got no husband."

"Well, if you can find a house that'll let a man serve as cook, as is his wish," Moseley said, "then perhaps they'll also let him marry the housekeeper."

Claire laughed, as she watched Ivy blush at Moseley's mention of the word "marriage." Ivy had been smitten with Alfred from their first dance at the servants ball, and he had been a constant companion since. Claire thought he was nice-looking, though a bit lanky, and a bit of an odd young man, for one in service, with his interest in cooking. But he was always respectful and never resented being accompanied by Moseley on his outings with Ivy. Claire understood Ivy's mother's hopes and fears for her daughter, but she secretly believed that if and when Mrs. Smith came to meet Alfred, she would like him, just as Claire did. Claire hadn't engaged him very much when he came round, but only not to put him in an awkward position if he ever found out she was Tom's mother. That was a moot point now, and so Claire looked forward to having at least one ally in the big house.

Claire set to pour herself a bit more tea, when Ivy stood to go to bed.

"It'll be quite a day tomorrow," Ivy said. "What time will you be off?"

"Nine o'clock on the dot," Claire answered. "And I'll likely be there all day, getting to know the space. You have everything you need for luncheon for yourself and Mr. Moseley."

"Very well, Mrs. Branson, good night" Ivy said, curtseying slightly and the was off.

Claire, still holding the teapot, raised it slightly toward Moseley and he nodded.

"She's a good girl," he said as Mrs. Branson poured.

"She is. Her parents were a bit hard on her. I think the separation's done her some good. She'll be ready to run her own house soon enough."

"Or go on to work at Downton, if they've need of a new housemaid after Lady Sybil gets Miss Dawson a position somewhere," Moseley said.

Claire smiled at the mention of Sybil. She looked up again at Moseley and narrowed her eyes a bit. "Did you ever get a hankering to work at one of them big houses, Mr. Moseley?"

"I was a footman at Rosings in Devonshire. Staff of thirty-five, all counted, serving a family of four—the mistress was quite particular."

"Golly. And did you enjoy it?"

Moseley scratched his head. "Not especially. I started out as a hallboy in the home my father was butler, you see, and had got quite used to being favored among the staff. The work at Rosings was not difficult, but I missed my family, and it was very easy to get lost in the crowd, as it were. I didn't stay long. Went back to London and stayed working there until just a few years ago."

"What brought you north?"

"I started looking for a post in Yorkshire when my mother passed and my father came to live out his days here, where he'd grown up. That was . . . can it have been seven years ago? So not just a _few _years ago, I suppose." Moseley laughed, softly. "Bounced around a bit with some of these estates round here getting shut down. I still find it a bit of a miracle that Downton survived."

Claire smiled. "Well, Tommy, with his populism doesn't like having had a hand in it, but he and Mr. Matthew are enjoying the challenge, I believe."

"They truly are unlike any men I've worked for—it cannot be simply their age, can it? Are all young men so . . . "

"Restless?"

"I was going to say eager," Moseley said with a laugh. "Sometimes, I still can't believe it'll almost be a year soon. Did you ever expect this is where you'd end up?"

Claire laughed. "Oh, Mr. Moseley, with the turns my life has taken, I've learned from the good Lord never to expect anything."

Moseley laughed. He enjoyed Mrs. Branson's company. She was only a handful of years older than he, but a healthy woman who clearly enjoyed her work. Tomorrow she'd be cooking at Downton for the first time, and Moseley wondered whether in some future, when Matthew took his place as earl, that's where they both would be.

**XXX**

The following morning, once breakfast had been served and cleared and Ivy left with instructions for the day, Moseley and Claire took off for Downton Abbey. Tom had offered to be the one who escorted her—he'd be going later anyway, to give Pratt a hand with one of the motors, which was giving him trouble—but Claire insisted that while there, she be _only_ the cook and not his mother as well. The line between upstairs and down that did not exist at Crawley House had to be respected at Downton, she'd told him, out of respect for the family.

"They are doing something kind for Mrs. Patmore," she'd said. "Let's not go in there and make a fuss."

"But I like making a fuss," Tom replied, cheekily.

"I'm perfectly aware of your proclivities for rabble-rousin'—you certainly don't need help from me to do it."

It was a bright, clear day, and Claire found the walk a rare, invigorating treat. Once they'd passed the gates, as they approached the house, she noticed Moseley slowing his pace a bit.

Smiling, she looked at him from the side of his eyes. "Nervous, are you, Mr. Moseley, because it does us no good to dally."

Moseley smiled back. "Just allowing you some time to admire the view."

It couldn't be denied. It was a beautiful place. Tom might have objections to the life that such building represented, but in this moment, Claire could only see the bigness of it as a measure of her son's work with Matthew and by extension her pride in him. It had only been a year, but she knew how much they had done to get the estate and the village thriving again. Both Moseley and Ivy had told her that in the village "the young gentlemen," as the pair had come to be known, were much admired for having brought the family back and gotten the farms up and running again.

As they neared the entrance at the back, Claire saw two figures standing outside smoking, a footman and lady's maid, she guessed, by the livery they wore. They all knew Moseley, so there was no doubt in her mind that they knew who she was, but as she was not expecting a particularly warm welcome, she was not surprised when neither of them smiled or made any move to greet them. Moseley stepped forward and opened the door for her. The servants hall was mostly empty, but there was some activity in the kitchen, so they went straight there. Mrs. Patmore, already in her traveling clothes, was giving the girl Claire guessed was the kitchen maid some anxious instruction.

Moseley nodded to Claire to enter without him and smiled encouragingly.

"Here goes nothin'," she whispered to him, then walked through directly to Mrs. Patmore.

The latter, seeing her enter, straightened up quickly and—to Claire's internal amusement—set her shoulders back and lifted her nose.

"Mrs. Branson, I presume,"

Claire stuck her hand out. "Claire Branson, very pleased to meet you Mrs. Patmore."

Mrs. Patmore looked down at Claire's hand, as if taken aback by the gesture, but quickly wiped her hands and shook. Claire momentarily recalled what Tom had told her about the Dowager Countess's response to Isobel's desire to shake hands and thought this must be the downstairs equivalent, but the truth was Mrs. Patmore was not used to being greeted in such a way. Claire turned to Daisy, who'd been looking back and forth between the two women, wondering just how they'd get on, knowing what she knew about Mrs. Patmore's lingering fears regarding her position—and the role she was being forced to play to ease those fears.

"You must be Daisy," Claire said, moving to shake her hand as well. "Ivy's told me about you. I look forward to working with you."

Daisy shook with a small smile, but as soon as her eyes landed on Mrs. Patmore again, she could see that the Crawley House's cook's kind words had set Mrs. Patmore to worrying again. Mrs. Patmore took a breath and in a condescending tone Daisy was very familiar with said, "I expect it'll be hard adjusting to this kitchen after the one you're used to."

Claire's shoulders tightened slightly, but she would not be put out, not after just walking in the door. So affecting as much calm as she could but eager to show she was not one to be pushed about, she answered, "Not to worry, I'm sure I can have it cleaned up in no time."

"Cleaned up?" Mrs. Patmore said, her brow furrowing in annoyance.

"I'm not criticising. With your eyesight, it's a wonder you could see the pots at all."

Daisy was never more relieved to see Mrs. Hughes. A manager of servants for many years, it took Elsie no time at all to see the tension between the two women. This was not how she was hoping it would start. Knowing Mrs. Patmore's character as she did, Mrs. Hughes had been hoping to make the introduction herself, but had been delayed upstairs.

"Mrs. Branson," she said, approaching quickly. "I'm sorry to have missed your arrival."

"Not to worry . . ."

"Elsie Hughes. I am the housekeeper here."

"Of course," Claire said. "We've only just come in." Claire turned to see Moseley, standing at the window looking in from the hallway.

"You'll have met Daisy and the others?" Mrs. Hughes asked.

"I have, though what they all find to do is a bit of a mystery to me," Claire said looking around.

"Are you not used to managing staff, Mrs. Branson?" Mrs. Patmore asked, challengingly.

Claire took a breath to remind herself—again—that there was no reason to push anyone's buttons. If she ever wondered where her son got his rabble-rousing instincts, here was her proof.

"I'm used to getting it done with one kitchen maid, Mrs. Patmore," she said in what she hoped was a calming, conciliatory tone. "But I suppose in a house like this, you expect . . . well, things are different here, aren't they?"

"They are," Mrs. Patmore answered curtly.

"Why don't you go upstairs and finish getting your things together, Mrs. Patmore," Mrs. Hughes put in quickly. "I'm sure things are well in hand here."

"All right then," Mrs. Patmore said and made her way out, keeping her eyes on Claire for as long as she could.

Mrs. Hughes watched her go, then looked back to Claire. "She's just feeling some nerves is all. Daisy, why don't you show Mrs. Branson where she can put her things."

Daisy moved toward the cupboard and gestured for Claire to follow.

Mrs. Hughes stepped back out into the hall and took a deep breath. Seeing Moseley, she smiled. "That went about as well as I was expecting."

Moseley chuckled. "She's all right, Mrs. Branson. She's more of a general than a trooper, but you need that in a cook."

Mrs. Hughes rolled her eyes. "Well, Mrs. Patmore's the Generalissimo."

**XXX**

Later that day, after Claire had more or less settled in, made luncheon without too many setbacks and enjoyed a quiet meal with Daisy and the scullery maids in the kitchen, she set about getting to really know the kitchen and surveying the stores. She wanted this dinner to be something that would make Isobel, Matthew and Tom all proud. For the most part, the rest of the staff—save the girls with whom she had to work directly—had stayed out of her way, and that was just as she'd wanted it. Tom, she presumed, was already on the premises, working in the garage with Mr. Pratt, having told her he'd come in the early afternoon. So far, he had not violated her orders and tried to sneak in to see her, and that was just as she'd wanted it as well. If the staff had not made too much noise about Claire on that particular day, it might have been attributable to another arrival—the telephone. In fact, as Claire worked in the kitchen that morning, Mr. Bromidge and the young men assisting him had put in one such device in Mr. Carson's pantry. In the afternoon, the men were upstairs in the outer hall.

That was where Sybil found Mr. Bromidge to ask after Gwen's application.

Approaching him carefully, she said, "Carson said you were here."

"Ah, just, er, checking that everything's being done right, milady," he said kindly.

"Only we never heard back," she said. "That is, Miss Dawson never heard back from you . . . about an interview?"

Mr. Bromidge moved to walk around his assistant and Sybil followed him as he spoke. "Ah, yes, we—we got the young lady's letter. But the trouble is, she didn't have any experience of hard work that I could tell, so . . ."

"Oh, but she's a very hard worker!" Sybil said eagerly.

"I couldn't find any proof of it. And she gave you as a reference when you don't run a business, milady. Well, not that I'm aware of."

Hearing someone pass through the hall, Sybil turned. "Lily! Can you find Gwen and tell her to come to the hall, now."

"Yes, milady," the housemaid answered.

Sybil turned again toward Mr. Bromidge, taking a step forward. "The reason Gwen didn't give any more details is because she works here. As a housemaid."

The man smiled, leaning back on his heels. "Ah, and you thought that'd put me off?"

"But she's taken a postal course and has good speeds in typing and Pittman shorthand. Test her."

"I will if I like the look of her," Mr. Bromidge said.

At just that moment, Gwen ran in, stopping herself just short when she saw Sybil with Mr. Bromidge. She'd seen him working downstairs earlier, but dared not speak to him. She wondered exactly what Sybil had said, but could not reasonably ask her now.

"Ah, so, young lady, you thought I'd turn up my nose at a housemaid," he said pointing at his nose with a smile.

"I did, sir," she said, a bit nervously.

"Well, my mother was a housemaid," he said with unmistakable pride. "I've got nothing against housemaids. They know about hard word and long hours, that's for sure."

Whether or not it was his intent, Mr. Bromidge, in his words, offered Gwen all the encouragement and emotional fortitude she needed. She nodded, now eager to say whatever she could to prove her worth. "Well, I believe so, sir."

Turning to Sybil, he asked, "Right, well, is there somewhere we could talk?"

Sybil held back her smile, but gestured to Gwen. "Gwen, take Mr. Bromidge to the library. I'll see no one disturbs you."

"Okay," Gwen responded meekly, walking to the library door just a few feet away.

As they walked through Sybil took a deep breath, hoping against hope that Mr. Bromidge might finally see in her friend all the potential that Sybil saw. Sybil turned back to face the hall and saw her father approaching with the clear intent of going into the library.

She cut him off, before he spoke. "Sorry, Papa, you can't go in there."

"Why on earth not?"

"Gwen's in there with Mr. Bromidge. She's being interviewed."

Robert raised his eyebrows. "I cannot use my library because one of the housemaids is in there applying for another job?"

Sybil shrugged slightly. "That's about the size of it."

Robert narrowed his eyes in annoyance at his young daughter, and with a deep sigh and walked away.

Sybil remained standing guard for about twenty minutes. When Mr. Bromidge and Gwen emerged, Sybil was happy to see Gwen smiling.

"Thank you for your time, Miss Dawson," Mr. Bromidge said with a slight bow. "Now, I best make sure these lads are doing their work properly. You'll be notified as to the decision in a few days."

"Thank _you_ so much, Mr. Bromidge," Sybil said, taking his hand and shaking it with both of hers.

He smiled and walked away.

Sybil took Gwen by the arm and pulled her back into the library, closing the door behind them.

"So? How was it? He seemed very pleased!"

Gwen smiled, wringing her hands a bit, trying to contain her excitement. "I think it was all right. I answered the questions. He said he was impressed by what I'd learned from my course. It was the best interview yet, but I don't dare get my hopes up."

Sybil took her hands. "Oh, Gwen you are so much more sensible than me," she said with a laugh. "How can I _not_ hope!? What shall we do until he reponds!?"

Gwen laughed. "Beggin' your pardon, milady, but I best get back to work."

"Of course, you must. How perfectly silly of me."

"It's all right, milady," she said, squeezing Sybil's hands before letting them go. "I don't know what will happen with this, but I am truly grateful for all your help. If nothing else, it was nice to hear what I do valued by someone in another line of work."

Sybil smiled warmly. "I'm so glad, but I do feel like the best is yet to come."

Gwen smiled back and moved toward the door. "What will you do this afternoon?"

"I think I might go for a walk."

"Will you go see Mr. Branson in the garage?"

Sybil's eyes brightened. "Is he helping Pratt today? I thought that wouldn't be until the weekend."

"I do believe he's there. I heard one of the hallboys say he was, not one hour ago."

"Well, he might like to hear how well things went for you," Sybil said.

Gwen grinned, but did not say what she was thinking, which was that Tom would probably enjoy hearing anything that came out of Sybil's mouth.

Sybil followed Gwen out of the library and proceeded out the door of the house toward the garage. As she stepped in, she could see his now familiar form laying down beneath one of the motors. She looked around and saw no sign of Pratt and was happy to have at least a moment alone with him. She approached the motor and watched with a smile as he hopped up from beneath, as quickly and sprightly as he had done on the day they'd first met. He was in his shirtsleeves now too.

When they locked eyes, Sybil went back to that moment in her mind and she was momentarily left speechless by a well of emotion that surged in her as she thought about how much could change in one year's time. Sybil had blushed on seeing him for the first time, but that was the effect of a lingering girlishness in her, one embarrassed by the effect of looking into a handsome face. Sybil was blushing again now, but it was different this time. This was love. A woman's love. One that was built on friendship and mutual admiration and dreams of future adventures away from a life that she now knew confined her as tightly as the strings of an unforgiving corset. And this was passion, a passion that was bursting at the seams and begging to be released.

Sybil took a deep breath. Clearing her throat, and looking down at the motor beneath which he'd just been working, she said, "I wish I knew how an engine worked."

"I could teach you if you like?" Tom said warmly.

Sybil smiled sheepishly. "That's Edith's territory."

"Don't be silly," he said taking her hand and pulling her over to stand directly in front of where the motor's bonnet was up.

"Where's Pratt?" She asked.

"I've sent him to the local mechanic for a part," Tom said, putting his hands in his pockets. "I thought he could use the walk, to be honest. He's a bit overworked."

"You've said that before."

"With each of you having your own set of affairs in the village and the county, it seems he barely has time to eat or sleep. I'd mentioned the idea of hiring a second chauffeur to Robert recently, but he's unlikely to take my advice now."

"Would you like me to ask him?"

Tom smiled. "He'll still know the idea came from me, and anyway, I've actually had a better idea."

"What's that?" Sybil asked.

"Train up Joseph as an apprentice for the post," Tom said.

"The hallboy?"

"Pratt says he's keen on cars, comes in here all the time to help wash them. He's the right age to start learning a trade, and it'll give him options as to a career beyond service if he wanted."

Sybil's eyes popped open and she grabbed onto his arms. "Oh, Tom! Speaking of careers, how could I have forgotten in the span of minutes! Gwen!"

"What about her? Has she found a job?" He asked excitedly.

"Well, not quite, but she was interviewed by Mr. Bromidge here in the library just now. He seemed rather taken with her. She said it was her best interview yet."

"I'm glad to hear it."

"Though I should say we did err in omitting her work as a maid in the original application."

"Oh?"

"Mr. Bromidge is himself the son of a maid and thought the job spoke well of Gwen's capacity for hard work. So you see, not everyone dislikes servants."

Tom smiled. "I'm very happy to have been wrong on that score."

He looked down and noticed that Sybil's hands had slid from his arms into his hands, which had come out of his pockets to grab hold of hers, but he made no move to let them go. He looked to the motor, on his left, and then back to Sybil.

"Perhaps you don't remember, but we are standing quite like we were when we first met."

Sybil smiled and squeezed his hands. "How could you think I don't remember?"

Tom smile faded slightly, and Sybil's felt her heart begin to race.

"Actually, this isn't quite how it was," he said, his voice sounding to Sybil quite unlike it had ever sounded before.

"No?"

Tom shook his head and took a step closer until their faces were only inches apart. "It was more like this," he whispered. "Because I remember thinking, 'If I bend down just a bit, I could kiss her.' "

Sybil cleared her throat. "Yes," she squeaked out.

"Yes, what?" He whispered back.

"Yes, you may kiss me—"

The word had barely left her lips when they were covered with his.

And just like that they were in heaven.

Sybil's hands slid back up his arms and chest and around his neck, while his arms wound around her small waist lifting her onto the tips of her toes. Their mouths opened almost immediately, deepening the contact and giving them each the first actual taste of what they'd longer for for so long now. Sybil grabbed onto whatever piece of him she could, wondering if she could pull him into her if she tried hard enough. Tom angled his head slightly and brought his right hand to the back of her head, making the kiss deeper still, wanting to drown himself in her.

After several minutes, they finally pulled away, but only slightly, their foreheads leaning against each other and their breaths mingling as they each struggled for air.

"Tom?" She asked, with what sounded to him like laughter in her voice.

"Yes?"

"Why did we wait so long to do that?"

Tom laughed, a laughter that bubbled out of him like the love he felt was gushing from his very pores, and said, "Oh, my darling. I don't know."

And they kissed again. And again. And again.


	30. Chapter 30

_Hello, everyone! I really didn't mean to let so much time lapse between updates. Life has just been really hectic lately. Before I get into this chapter, I wanted to thank whomever nominated this story for a Highclere Award. I only write fanfic for fun, but it means a lot that there are people out there who are enjoying it and like it enough to take the time to do something like that._

_If you are interested, I'll be posting on tumblr—magfreak . tumblr . com, without the spaces—soon about what's coming up for this story as we go from 1913 to 1914. This chapter picks up on the evening of the day we left off. I know that things are sailing smoothly for Sybil and Tom right now, but life will get in their way several times before they can truly be together and married, so even though they've kissed and all but declared their love for one another, don't expect a wedding anytime soon ;)_

_Lastly, this chapter takes place primarily in the downstairs world, but there's a moment involving Tom inspired by a scene from the movie Atonement (no, not the sex against the shelf scene) as well as a line taken from the movie/book. The dishes mentioned are taken from different Downton Abbey-inspired menus that I found online._

_Anyway, without further ado . . ._

* * *

Following her interview with Mr. Bromidge, Gwen went on with her duties until it was time for tea. After making her way back downstairs, as she walked through the servants hall, her eyes happened to catch the brand new telephone sitting in Mr. Carson's pantry and she stopped short. She was eager for the job with Mr. Bromidge primarily because she wanted to be a secretary—not because she had any idea how telephones actually worked, though she did express to him a keen interest in learning about them. Seeing the device up close, she was both marveled and baffled by it. Not to mention intimidated. It was, in every respect, a symbol of modernity. If her father had been with her, and she'd tried to explain the telephone's function to him, he'd be no more interested in it than he would in the idea that she could be something other than what she had been born.

Looking around the hall, Gwen saw that it was still mostly empty. Despite the breach in protocol—a housemaid going into the office of a butler—Gwen's curiosity got the better of her and she stepped in. She smiled as she approached the device. The speed of the communication it allowed dispensed with so much of the formality and custom that Mr. Carson treasured, but even so, beholding it now, Gwen thought there was a dignified, almost regal quality to it.

She had just reached out to touch it when she heard Alfred come up behind her, with Daisy on his heels, their curiosity about the new device piqued as well.

"Funny looking thing, don't you think?" Alfred said.

"I suppose, but it serves its purpose," was Gwen's reply.

"Who do you call?" Alfred asked. "No one you know has got one."

"But they will have. You'll see."

Before Alfred could say anything else, Carson startled them with his booming voice, dripping with irritation.

"Might I inquire why my pantry has become a common room?"

"Sorry, Mr. Carson," Alfred said, "but . . . do you know how it works?"

"Of course I do," Carson replied.

"Will you show us?" Daisy asked eagerly.

Her question was met with a quick reply. "Certainly not!" Carson exclaimed. "A telephone is not a toy, but a useful and valuable tool. Now, get back to your work."

"But it's tea time, Mr. Carson," Alfred said.

Carson's eyes widened in silent reprimand and the three young people scurried out quickly. The butler straightened up and pulled down on his jacket before turning back to his desk and the telephone sitting atop it. He leaned over it for a moment before picking up the earpiece with his hand and blowing into it. He set the earpiece back down, then after a moment picked up both the earpiece and the mouthpiece, bringing the former to his ear and the latter to his lips. Mr. Bromidge had, in fact, explained to Carson how to use the device, but it was one thing to hear the instructions and quite another to put them into practice.

After standing there silently for a moment, Carson finally spoke, "Hello, this is Downton Abbey. Carson, the butler, speaking."

He set the telephone back down but picked it up again almost immediately, reconsidering his words. "Hello. This is Mr. Carson, the butler of Downton Abbey. To whom am I speaking?"

Having never used the device before, Carson was not expecting to hear the operator's voice when it came through, and he dropped the earpiece in surprise.

"Excuse me, sir, but there's no need to shout!" were the terse words Carson heard.

"I'm not shouting!" He exclaimed. "Who are you?"

"Mrs. Gaunt," the operated replied.

"Oh, Mrs Gaunt."

"With whom shall I connect you?" she asked politely.

"No, I don't want to place a call," Carson said.

"Well, then why in heaven's name are you talking into the telephone?"

"I was practicing my answer."

"Seems like a rather stupid thing to do, if you ask me, tying up the lines when others have actual business to get on with."

Her tone did not put her—or the device—into Carson's good graces. "Well, I dare say a lot of the things _you_ do sound stupid to other people!"

Not eager to continue the conversation, Carson hung up the phone and went back out into the servants hall, where Alfred and Gwen did very well in containing their laughter until after Carson was out of earshot.

After they'd calmed a bit, Alfred said, "Sounded like the operator was a bit cheeky with him. She should have known she was speaking to the butler of this house, and been more respectful of his position."

"Don't you see, Alfred," Gwen said. "With modern things like the telephone, position won't matter nearly so much as it did before. And respect will be something all of us have to earn in equal measure. I dare say if Mr. Carson had spoken kindly to her, she'd have been kind in return."

Gwen took a small sip of her tea and realized that despite her best efforts, she had failed in containing her expectations and hopes regarding her job with the telephone company.

She wanted it very, _very_ much.

**XXX**

Lying on his bed and staring at the ceiling, Tom could feel a small bead of sweat that had formed on his chest roll, ever so slowly down to the base of his neck. He was wearing his dinner trousers and an undershirt. His hair was still slightly damp from the bath he'd just taken. His mind was consumed with thoughts of Sybil.

As he'd walked back to Crawley House that afternoon, passing the gates and the path that led to the creek where he and Sybil liked to spend time together, he had considered veering off to see whether jumping in the cold water would offer him a measure of release and bring his temperature down to what felt like a normal level. He laughed at the thought, at himself and at the likely futility of the exercise. He knew well, then as now, that if he felt overheated it was not owing to the July weather but the series of intoxicating kisses he and Sybil had shared in the Downton Abbey garage.

Tom closed his eyes again, a small smile forming on his face as he relived each one. He wasn't sure what had possessed him to do it. From the moment Tom realized that he was in love with Sybil and wanted to spend the rest of his life with her, he had promised himself that he would not overstep his bounds with her, lest he jeopardize their future and Robert's approval of the match. Tom loathed the rituals by which young aristocratic ladies like Sybil were expected to be "presented" and then sit back meekly and quietly while a panoply of suitors took their pick. In his mind it was not unlike the meat markets where farmers sold off their cattle, and he knew Sybil well enough now to know that she had little patience for such traditions as well. Nevertheless, Tom also knew that unless they were prepared to wait a very long time, the rules needed to be followed, at least in some measure. Without Robert's permission, Sybil would not be allowed to marry until she was 21. Knowing now the taste and softness of her lips . . . well, waiting until her debut a year from now was going to be trying enough.

But seeing her there in the garage and having called to mind the image of their first meeting, the temptation was too much to bear. When she gave him her permission, and with it confirmation that a kiss had been on her mind as well, it was as if a knife had cut the very taut strings that had been holding them both back. Tom couldn't remember how long they had stood kissing in that garage—it might have been five minutes or five hours—but he remembered the fire it lit inside him. He felt it still. He remembered her eyes bright with the sparkle of first love and the tendrils of hair that had fallen around her face, pulled from her bun by his eager fingers. He remembered, too, the blush that came over her cheeks as she reluctantly suggested that she return to the house, lest they be discovered, and the promise to meet in the library after dinner. Pratt did, in fact, return shortly after Sybil's departure, and once the motor had been repaired to Tom's satisfaction, Tom set off, feeling acutely every step of the distance between them.

After the walk back, tea, then a bath, here he was now, counting the minutes—nay, _seconds_—before he would see her and hold her in his arms and kiss her again. Tonight would be the first dinner that his mother would be preparing for the family in Mrs. Patmore's absence. Under normal circumstances, concern for her would have been at the top of his mind, but not even a declaration of war could have displaced thoughts of Sybil on this day. Sybil was not the first girl Tom had kissed, so the extent to which the act affected him was surprising. What Tom didn't realize now, of course, and wouldn't for some time, was that despite his experience with other women, he had never been in love before meeting Sybil, and when it came to kissing—and every other physical manifestation of love—that made all the difference.

After a while, Tom finally pushed himself off his bed and walked over to his desk in the corner of the room. He sat down and pulled in front of him a stack of papers he'd brought home from the partnership to read over and annotate. After staring at the stack for a long moment, he pushed it away again and took out a blank sheet of paper and a pen and set to writing.

_July 10, 1913_

_My Dearest Sybil, _

_I sit down to write this letter on the afternoon after we shared our first kiss, not with the intention of posting it, but because my mind is so consumed with thoughts of you that I find myself quite unable to function. The truth is I feel rather light-headed and foolish in your presence, Sybil, and I don't think I can blame the heat. I don't know whether writing my thoughts down will help me contain them so I may go on with my day, but I must try. I have a pile of papers I must get to before the day is out. You know well how I treasure my work and my ability to make a living for myself just as I know you long to do the same. And just as I know someday you will. _

_Perhaps these lines will reveal me as a more sentimental man than you might have thought me before. The revelation surprises even me. It is but one of the very many ways being at Downton and having you in my life have changed me. This may seem like an odd thing to admit, but for someone who values change and its positive effects on society, I had not considered, before I arrived here, how little of it there had been in my own life and in myself. _

_My life in Manchester, so foreign to me now, was a safe one that offered no real challenges and, thus, no rewards. Here, I've been confronted with my own prejudices, I've enjoyed speaking up for my principles in conversations and debates with people and friends who are not of like mind, I've been tasked with putting my words into practice by helping Matthew find a way to keep Downton alive not at the expense of the working people whose efforts sustain it, but to their benefit, and I've come to realize that what I once expected from marriage and love was naive because nothing in my previous life prepared me for how I feel for you. _

_What's funny is that I find no satisfaction in having found you, but rather a deeper hunger for the things I've always wanted and the things that I now know you want as well. Like traveling the world and seeing people and cultures beyond the boundaries of my own small life, helping others understand the value of a just and equal society, fighting for the day you may cast a vote, and—this is more personal to me than it is to you—seeing my father's dream of a free Ireland come to pass. I want it all more now because I will be sharing it, delighting in it, with someone who will be not just a wife, but my best friend and partner. That is the life that I hope for, one full of hope and adventure and fun. A life, my darling Sybil, that would be as worthy of you as I shall always strive to be._

_Yours with deepest affection, T. Branson_

Tom set his pen down and smiled as he looked over the letter. He folded it up, stuffed it into an envelope and carefully wrote out, _Lady Sybil Crawley, Downton Abbey, Yorkshire_. He smiled again as he picked up the envelope and ran his thumb over her name. Finally, he opened the top drawer of his desk and pushed the letter into the back corner. He closed the drawer and sat back in his chair with a deep sigh. A year was a long time to wait, but it was nothing compared with the lifetime they had to look forward to.

_For now, God knows, it's enough that I can kiss her._

It would not be that day, nor that month, nor that year, but eventually Sybil would read the letter, and when she did, she would think about how she'd left the garage to go straight to her room to write in her diary about how much she was looking forward to a life much like Tom had described it.

**XXX**

By the third time Carson walked past the kitchen, Claire was so exasperated by his and Mrs. Hughes' hovering—and by what she saw as intentionally sloppy work by Daisy—that she yelled out to all the maids with her in the kitchen, "Pray tell, girls, do the butler and housekeeper of this house ever leave the cook alone to do her job?"

Daisy, who was running around the kitchen table placing the first course (oysters with champagne vinegar mignonette) on the serving dishes, was startled by the tone and volume and looked at Claire wide-eyed. Instinctively, her hand went to the apron pocket where she'd hidden the soap shavings she intended to drop in the soup. "Wh-what?" She said nervously, sure that the scheme was written all over her face.

"Mind that you set those oysters down so they don't slip," Claire said, narrowing her eyes at the young woman. After a moment, Claire sighed and set her attention back on the cut of venison in front of her.

Carson had heard her yell, though, and a moment later walked into the kitchen with a stern look on his face. "Is there a problem, Mrs. Branson?"

Claire's guard was up immediately once again. "I'm wondering that, myself, Mr. Carson. You seem rather preoccupied with me. If there's a problem let's have it out now so I can get on with dinner."

Her directness surprised him. "As butler, I am perfectly within my rights to see that any meal is being prepared in the manner that befits this house."

Claire took a deep breath. "Do you see anything going amiss that you can tell? I mean other than me having to look over this silly girl's shoulder all the time?"

Daisy gasped loudly, but was ignored as Carson looked around. He had little to comment on, of course, having no real grasp as to how the kitchen was run, but made a bit of a show of inspecting things closely. "Everything looks well in hand here," he said finally.

"Good," Claire replied. "Now, if you please, send those boys in here so they can take the oysters up before the sauce gets overly warm, I'd appreciate it. It's best served fresh off the ice, you see, and I'll not have the lot upstairs think things are not up to par on my account."

Carson stiffened but said nothing else. He turned and barked out orders to Thomas and Alfred, who came in quickly to take the trays. Carson followed them out to serve the wine, doing so without turning back around so he missed Claire rolling her eyes at him.

After he'd gone, Claire walked out into the servants hall, where Ivy and Moseley, having arrived with the rest of the family, were waiting for the servants' dinner, which would begin after the family had moved on to the drawing room. Claire walked over to Ivy and said, "My dear, I know you didn't come here to work, but would you mind terribly giving me a hand."

Ivy smiled brightly and said "Of course, Mrs. Branson."

"Is everything all right?" Moseley asked with concern as Ivy stood to follow Claire.

"Let's hope so," Claire said cryptically. She suspected that Daisy—and perhaps even Mr. Carson himself—was trying to sabotage her, but Claire wasn't going to deal with that just now.

Claire and Ivy walked back to the kitchen. Before Ivy went over to the pantry to fetch an apron, Claire grabbed her by the elbow. "I want you to pour half the soup into a different pot and put it in back of the stove and out of sight. When the footmen are ready for it, serve it yourself, but let Daisy think that the first pot's what's going upstairs."

Ivy looked at Claire with confusion in her expression. "But why?"

"Just do as I say. I'll explain later."

Ivy nodded and did as she was told.

Upstairs, when the footmen made it to the dining room, Alfred took care to go to the side of the table Tom was sitting on. Tom smiled seeing him and as he turned to serve himself from the tray Alfred held out, Tom asked quietly, "Has she killed anyone yet?"

"No, sir," Alfred replied with a smile. "Just gave Mr. Carson a good talking to, though. I believe it's still smarting a bit."

Tom followed Alfred's eyes to where Carson had just stepped into the room with the decanter of wine, and sure enough Tom could see an even firmer expression on Carson's countenance than usual.

"Tell her I said to go easy on him and everyone else," Tom whispered to Alfred as he stood to move on to Violet, who was too busy bemoaning the house's latest foray into modern life to have noticed the exchange.

"First electricity, now telephones," she said with a sigh. "Sometimes I feel as if I were living in an H.G. Wells novel. But the young are all so calm about change, aren't they?"

"If we're calm it's because we know there is nothing to fear, granny," Sybil said, on the other side of Violet.

At first both Sybil and Tom had been disappointed that they were sitting on the same side of the table, in positions that did not allow them to look directly at one another across it, but after a while, Sybil believed it to be for the best. Such was the blush that had come over her features upon his arrival that she was afraid everyone would see the truth of what they'd done written all over her face. She did not consider their kisses the kind of illicit activity that would cause a true scandal, but she wanted to keep the progression of their relationship a secret at least for now, to enjoy it without the bother of her mother's interference, the teasing of her sisters or the false indignation of her father. It saddened Sybil to know that had the truth of Tom's parentage never been discovered, her parents—so fond of Tom previously—might have welcomed news of their attachment happily and eagerly. Still, she was proud of who he had made himself to be and couldn't deny that she preferred that her family know the real man she loved, rather than a false impression—even if it meant they'd have to wait to be together properly.

Sybil was brought out of her revery by her grandmother, who made a satisfied noise upon tasting her hors d'oeuvres.

"You know, my dears, I may be reluctant to accept change, but I rather enjoy it come dinner time."

Tom and Isobel exchanged glances, happy that the most discriminating palate at the table had opened the meal with a welcoming outlook.

**XXX**

Upstairs, dinner came and went without incident. Downstairs, Claire and Ivy did their level best to serve a meal twice as complicated and for three times as many people as they were used to while working around the rest of the staff and doing so without it seeming as if they were. With Carson busy serving, Mrs. Hughes continued to pace the hall to peek in at their progress. The housekeeper could see that something between Claire and the Downton kitchen staff was amiss. But once the meal was underway, Claire had no time to stop and ask the housekeeper to mind her business.

Upstairs, once dessert was cleared (meringue nests with roasted rhubarb and raspberry sauce), the ladies proceeded to the drawing room.

As they were getting settled, Carson turned to Thomas. "Alfred and I can manage here now. Go and tell Mrs. Branson we'll have our dinner in twenty minutes."

Cora, who was the last to enter, walked over to him before sitting down. "Carson, be sure to say to Mrs. Branson the dinner was really delicious. His lordship, I believe, found the gingered quail especially pleasing. It would be nice if Mrs. Patmore could copy the recipe when she returns."

"Very well, milady," Carson said, nodding, proud that the meal had gone over so well.

After about 15 minutes, once the ladies had all been served their wine or cordial (and Sybil had excused herself), Carson sent Alfred back to the dining room to clear any remaining service items that had been left on the table. Finding none, Alfred proceeded back through the front hall as was his habit. Walking by the library he heard people talking and leaned his head in to quietly check whether they might be in need of anything. He was surprised by the sight of Sybil and Tom sitting on the sofa facing away from the door. They were only talking but theirs heads were leaning into one another, revealing a level of intimacy that Alfred, still a young man, was only able to recognize because he, too, was in love. He smiled at the sight, and as quietly as possible, he pulled the door shut so the two young lovers would not be caught unawares by anyone else.

But, alas, Alfred did not go undetected.

As he closed the door, Sybil turned her head quickly toward the door, then back to Tom, asking, "Did you hear something?"

"I think was Alfred."

A worried expression came over Sybil's face. "Do you think he'll tell Carson? If he does, Carson's sure to tell papa!"

Tom laughed. "He won't say anything."

"How can you be so sure?" She asked, skeptical.

"Alfred is something of a romantic, I believe."

"How so?"

"Well, he's been sweet on Ivy since they met and rather persistent about the whole thing. I'm confident he wouldn't give us away, but honestly what would there be to report except that he saw you and me in the library talking."

"We weren't just talking a minute ago," Sybil said with a blush coming over her cheeks.

"Lucky for us, he missed that, didn't he," he said leaning in, Sybil eagerly meeting his lips half way. After a few seconds, she pulled away and whispered, "Perhaps we should stop, lest someone else happen by."

Tom smiled. "He closed the door, so we'd hear anyone coming."

Sybil laughed. "So Alfred has a spot in his heart for romance?"

"Indeed. And he wants to be a cook."

"Really? That's a bit odd."

"An unusual inclination, sure, but the way Ivy tells it he has rather a knack for it. She says Mrs. Patmore sends him to the village regularly to buy spices for the kitchen here."

"How extraordinary! But why doesn't he give it a real go? Why work here as footman?"

Tom smiled. "His parents, and Miss O'Brien hope he'll be a butler." After a moment, he added, "Not all of us are built to live out the hopes of our fathers."

Sybil smiled ruefully. "A truth I'm afraid I know too well."

Tom brought his hand up to her face and Sybil leaned into in. She narrowed her eyes at him and asked quietly, "Do you ever think about what your father would have hoped for you?"

He dropped his hand with a sigh and Sybil caught it and held it in her own. "Too often," he said with a sad smile.

"Do you mind if I ask . . . how he died?"

"Officially, it was an accident at work, but mam and the family have always believed the owner of the mill where he worked got him 'taken care of' for trying to organize the workers there."

Sybil squeezed his hand. "Heavens! Oh, Tom, that's horrible!"

Tom looked away and shrugged, but Sybil could see that thinking about it affected him.

"I'm sure he'd be proud of the man you've become," she said quietly. After a moment, she added, "This is a terribly selfish thing to say, but in spite of the difficulties that brought you and your mother to England and to this point, well . . . I'm glad you're here."

Tom chuckled. "You think if he'd lived, you and I wouldn't be here right now?"

"I would be here," she said rolling her eyes. "Even in an alternate universe, I suspect the realities of life at Downton would remain reliably predictable."

"Oh, I think I'd be here as well," he said with a wink.

"How do you figure?" Sybil asked, smiling.

"Don't you remember me saying that if I'd had to enter into service, I'd have been a chauffeur? I'd likely have come to England to find work. Your father would have been charmed by my political interests, in spite of himself and would have offered me a post. I'd have met you and immediately resolved to make you to fall in love with me."

"And I would have happily done so," Sybil said leaning into him again, "but only after deliberating for a good long time."

"Far longer than necessary," Tom said as he captured her lips in a kiss once again.

When Sybil pulled away, she said with a laugh. "We should both be glad this version of me was easier to convince."

**XXX**

After having seen Tom and Sybil in the library, Alfred had returned to the servants hall, where the staff had begun to gather as Daisy set the table for their dinner.

Not seeing Ivy, he wandered over to the kitchen and, sure enough, there she was, looking tired and a bit angry. His brow furrowed, but before Alfred had a chance to step in and ask what was wrong, Carson came down and walked past him into the kitchen himself. Alfred sighed, knowing he would have to wait until after dinner.

For a moment after stepping in, Carson watched Claire, who was at the stove stirring a broth for use in cooking the following day's meals. Carson recognized the exhaustion in her slumped shoulders, but he did not see the frustration that she was also feeling.

Claire had done everything to try and blend in, preparing in the process two of the best meals she had ever made. And, still, the servants at Downton seemed intent on humiliating her. She and Ivy headed off the kitchen maid's efforts, but to Claire at that moment it was abundantly clear that for the remainder of Mrs. Patmore's absence, Carson and Mrs. Hughes were determined to look over her shoulder and catch her in a mistake. Just now, she had heard him enter and her back stiffened, which did not escape his notice. Carson, understanding that at least some of her weariness was owing to his own behavior earlier that evening, spoke with what he hoped was a conciliatory tone.

"I came in to thank you for your efforts today, Mrs. Branson," he said. "I wonder if you'd like to join us for dinner."

Claire turned in shock, but the sincerity was as plain on his face as his comically bushy eyebrows. Claire smiled.

"I don't mind if I do," she answered. She untied her apron, cleaned off her hands with it before hanging it on a hook by the door and followed Carson into the servants' dining area.

Seeing her, a wide-eyed Daisy, who was still setting out the food, said, "I'm not sure Mrs. Patmore would like that, Mr. Carson. Cook always eats separate, that's what she says."

"Not in our house," Moseley said with a smile. "There's only the three of us."

O'Brien arched her brow and said, "That doesn't surprise anyone, Mr. Moseley. I half expected for you to say you all eat upstairs, to be honest, seeing how unconventionally Crawley House is run these days."

Claire, having felt under attack throughout the preparations for dinner, couldn't take it anymore. "You know what, Mr. Carson, I believe Miss O'Brien is right. It would be wrong to steer away from custom just because I am here. I think I'll take my dinner in the kitchen."

Seeing O'Brien's smirk, Claire turned away, but she hadn't made it all the way back to the kitchen, when she heard Mosley behind her and she could feel his jaw tightening even as he spoke.

"I believe I shall take my dinner in the kitchen as well," he said tersely. "Or outside perhaps, but I won't eat here."

Mrs. Hughes, from her position to the right of the head of the table, stood. "Excuse me, Mr. Moseley?

"It seems to be accepted practice at this table to sneer at the honor and character of the people for whom Mrs. Branson, Ivy and I work. Perhaps you are uncomfortable with Mr. Branson's position with the family and feel it necessary to underline your superiority by talking snidely of Dr. Crawley's generosity. Perhaps it's something else altogether. Regardless, I serve Mrs. Crawley and _both_ her sons proudly and would just as soon not dignify any further disrespect to them with my presence. I will say that it disappoints me, Mr. Carson. I expected more from a house run by the likes of you."

"Mr. Moseley," Carson started, chest out as if engaged and ready to defend the reputation Moseley had just insulted. But before Carson could continue, Mrs. Hughes quickly grabbed his arm to stop whatever words were forming in his mouth.

"Mrs. Branson, Mr. Moseley, please, do not mind Miss O'Brien," she said, spitting out the name to make her anger to the lady's maid quite clear. "She along with everyone else has been asked by his lordship himself to mind her manners. I apologize for any offense. Please sit down. Let the kitchen maids have their dinner on their own. You stay with us."

Moseley looked to Claire as if waiting to be guided by her. She let out a sigh and said, "Fine, if you insist." But Claire did make it a point to sit down at the other end of the table, where the more junior members of the staff were, choosing a spot next to Alfred. As soon as she did so, Alfred put his hand over hers, in the hopes she would feel some solidarity.

She did and immediately resolved to support Ivy's interest in him when writing to her parents next.

Before they all tucked in, Carson said, "Her ladyship said to tell you that the dinner was delicious, Mrs. Branson."

Before Claire had a chance to respond, Daisy exclaimed, "She can't have."

Carson immediately turned to Daisy in disbelief. "Daisy? Does that surprise you?"

The look of guilt on Daisy's face was enough for everyone to put down their utensils.

Claire stood immediately. "What have you done with this, you silly girl? I knew it. That's why I said it was for upstairs. Come on! Tell us what's in it!"

With tears already brimming in her eyes, Daisy confessed, "Just . . . water and a bit of soap."

Claire walked over to Daisy and grabbed her by the arm. "And you've put something in the fish sauce as well?"

"Only mustard and aniseed," Daisy answered, wringing her hands.

Realizing why the scenes she spied in the kitchen had troubled her—and why Claire had asked Ivy to help, Mrs. Hughes stood angrily. "Why, Daisy? Why would you do such a thing?!"

As her tears finally spilled over, Daisy gave her answer. "Because Mrs. Patmore was worried that they'd prefer Mrs. Branson's cooking and they wouldn't want her to come back."

Carson rolled his eyes in exasperation. "Is that likely? When they've taken such trouble to get her well?"

"I'm sorry," Daisy said, now sobbing.

Claire let out a laugh, relieved that Daisy's actions were not so sinister as Claire had expected. She loosened her grip on Daisy's arm, pulling her in to offer comfort. "There, there. There are worse crimes on earth than loyalty. Dry your eyes, and fetch the beef stew I was making for tomorrow. You've not had a chance to spoil that, I suppose."

"I was going to mix in some syrup of figs," Daisy said, which set most of the table to laughing.

"But I've not done it yet!" she added.

Thomas laughed. "Well, at least we'd have all been regular."

**XXX**

Despite the rocky start, once something edible had been served, the downstairs dinner continued without too much more fuss, the tension that had marked the beginning having more or less dissipated by its end.

After, the scullery maids got to cleaning up and started on scrubbing the pots, as Claire made out the following day's menus. That task done, she wrote out a list of tasks for Daisy to start on before she arrived.

Claire watched Daisy wipe the counters absentmindedly, clearly still shaken from what had happened earlier.

"Daisy?"

Daisy turned around, eyes wide. "Y-yes, Mrs. Branson?"

Claire walked over to her and handed her the list. "Be sure that you get started bright and early tomorrow after you've seen to the fires upstairs."

Daisy took the list. "Thank you. I'll do it all perfect, I swear it!"

Claire chuckled. "No need to swear to it, just get it all done."

Daisy smiled and nodded, finally feeling forgiven.

Claire regarded her for a moment, then added, "May I give you some advice, Daisy?"

Daisy's face got serious again. "A-all right."

"My dear, I've no sense of your ambitions, but whatever you are inclined to do with your life, I believe that even people like us have a measure of choice, even if the choices are not all berries and sunshine. So with that in mind, you need to learn to stand up for yourself. The key to being a good servant is the ability to follow orders and do so while keeping your own mind. You do yourself and Mrs. Patmore no favors by following instructions blindly. Do you understand?"

Daisy nodded eagerly. Claire didn't know her well enough to determine whether that meant that the message got through, but she was happy to have said it all in any case.

"All right then," Claire said. "Off to bed with you."

"Thank you, Mrs. Branson. I really am so sorry."

After Daisy had gone, Claire looked around the now empty kitchen and with a sigh walked over to the pantry to get her hat and coat. She was in the process of putting them on when she saw Mrs. Hughes approach her.

"I wonder, Mrs. Branson, if I may have a word with you," the housekeeper said in a tone that was firm but not unkind, as was her usual manner.

Claire was tired and wanted to get home but didn't want to be rude and so followed Mrs. Hughes to her small sitting area next to Carson's pantry.

"I have to admit," Mrs. Hughes began, "that I did not intend to watch over you as you cooked dinner today. I only did because I noticed that you and later you and Ivy seemed not to be working in concert with our own staff and I was concerned. I understand now you were acting on your suspicions of Daisy, and rightly so. I am sorry that you did not feel comfortable enough to come to me. This is a proud lot, I won't deny that, but they are not mean-spirited people as a rule, even Miss O'Brien, I dare say."

Claire let out a laugh, and Mrs. Hughes smiled, silently acknowledging how little water that last statement held.

After a moment, she added, "I do hope you accept our sincerest apologies if you felt slighted in anyway."

Claire smiled. "If I may be honest, Mrs. Hughes, the reason I didn't say anything is because I thought you were all in on it."

Taken aback, Mrs. Hughes asked, "Why you would think such a thing?"

"Isn't it obvious, Mrs. Hughes? I thought you wanted to embarrass me and by extension embarrass my son. I know that the way we live at Crawley House is unorthodox, but I will not have him be made fun of. Not when he doesn't deserve it."

"Neither would I, Mrs. Branson, I assure you. Perhaps this is an unusual thing for a servant to say but I pay little mind to the lives of the people I work for and prefer to keep my attention on getting the job done and done well. Even so, I admire Mr. Branson a great deal. I did so before I knew where he came from, and I do so more now that I know where he is is a result of his hard work and yours and not merely happenstance."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hughes, I do appreciate hearing that."

"I think we are all better off with him up there with the family instead of down here with us, and I include his lordship and his ladyship in that."

Claire smiled. "Thank you, Mrs. Hughes. I would love to stay for a longer chat, but I believe Mr. Pratt is waiting to take Mr. Moseley, Ivy and myself home, and if I don't go now, you're liable to have an Irishwoman fall dead asleep at your feet."

Mrs. Hughes laughed. "At least it'd be a fellow Celt."

**XXX**

Outside, while Mrs. Branson and Mrs. Hughes were talking, Ivy was sitting at the table just outside the door. Alfred was sitting next to her and had been since she'd come out just after dinner, though neither had said much in that quarter of an hour.

Alfred knew now, of course, that Ivy had been upset because of Daisy's sabotage, but she didn't seem eager to be comforted by him over it.

"It'll be easier tomorrow," he said quietly.

"I've a mind not to come tomorrow," Ivy said, a bit petulantly.

Alfred sighed. "You saw how broken up Daisy was about the whole thing!"

"I also saw her dump the soap into the soup with my own eyes! I thought she was my friend!"

"She was just following Mrs. Patmore's orders. Twisted as it was, she didn't mean any harm by it."

"And what about what your aunt said?!" Ivy said turning to face him for the first time. "Are you going to tell me _she_ didn't mean any harm by insulting Mrs. Crawley and Mr. Branson?"

Alfred could see now that her eyes were wet with tears and that it was his kin's offense that had truly smarted.

"She didn't—"

"Oh, stop it, Alfred! She doesn't believe them worthy of her service, so what do you think she makes of those of us who _do_ work for them?"

"Aunt Sarah's proud, and she's not the softest disposition in the world—"

"I'll say," Ivy cut in, making Alfred laugh, the sound of which broke through her defenses a bit.

She smiled sadly. "She'll poison your parents against me, but that's not even the worst of it."

Alfred's brow furrowed, even as a slight blush came over his cheeks at her admission that she wanted to meet his family. "What do you mean?"

Ivy took a deep breath. "I love working for Mrs. Crawley. So much that I'd hoped to take over for Mrs. Branson when she were ready to retire. Only with Mr. Matthew being heir and all, she'll likely live here eventually, and I've no desire to be a footsoldier. I want to run a house on my own, a small, manageable one. So my plan since we came to Yorkshire has been to offer my services to Mr. Branson when he marries. It's many years off, I'm sure, but he'll pay well and will live simply but with dignity, just as I'd like to. But if your people are going to have a problem with that then—"

"Ivy, do you think _I _have a problem with Mr. Branson?" Alfred asked with a smile.

Ivy shrugged. "Don't you?"

"No! I like him very much. I've a mind to ask him for a job myself now that you mention it."

Ivy's face brightened immediately. "Really? Oh, Alfred!"

He leaned in and kissed her gently on the cheek. Before pulling away, he whispered into her ear, "And I'll tell you a secret. I think he'll marry sooner than you think."


	31. Chapter 31

_Thank you, as always, dear readers for your support and reviews._

_I originally intended for this chapter to be the garden party, but as I got writing the scenes that led up to it, they got really long, so it will have to happen in two parts. This chapter starts with Mrs. Patmore's return and ends on the morning of the garden party, just before it starts. I don't feel super strongly about it, but at the end of the day, there wasn't anything that I wanted to cut, so I apologize if it feels like things are dragging out. I certainly hope the story remains engaging._

_In this chapter, Violet will level with Cora about Sybil's interest in Tom, and Sybil will confide in Imogen about him. I also touch on Cora's relationship with Edith, which starts to set up Edith's frame of mind when she meets Anthony. One thing to remember regarding Violet is that on the show, of all the people who could have sent Tom and Sybil money to attend Mary's wedding (basically anyone in the family), the one who actually does it is Violet. She talks like a snob, but at the end of the day, family always wins with her. That's what drives how I am writing her in this story._

_I'll probably post some further notes on it on tumblr (magfreak . tumblr . com, without the spaces) next week. I really love hearing your thoughts (good or bad), so please let me know what you think! _

* * *

The procedure on Beryl Patmore's eyes went off without a hitch, and as she rode the train back to Downton wearing the protective glasses she'd been given by the doctor, her heart could not help but beat a little faster, the landscape of Northern England rolling by out her window more brightly than it had on the train ride south just two days before. Her excitement and relief at knowing that her sight—and with it her ability to work—would no longer be impaired did not, however, quell the nerves that she still felt knowing another cook had been put in her place. She wondered whether the family had missed her and would welcome her back. Throughout Mrs. Patmore and Anna's time in London, Anna had assured Mrs. Patmore that his lordship would not have bothered to fix her up if his intention was to sack her upon her return, but Mrs. Patmore could not be calm, not until she walked back into the house and into her kitchen.

_Her_ kitchen.

Once the train came safely into the Downton station, Anna and Mrs. Patmore gathered their bags and stepped off. They were quickly greeted by Pratt, who had been sent to fetch them. Grateful not to have to make the walk back, the women hopped into the motor as he secured their bags, and soon after, they set off. It was near midday, so Anna assumed that Mrs. Branson would still be at the house preparing luncheon when they arrived. She also assumed Mrs. Patmore would be aware of this, but Anna figured reminding Mrs. Patmore and preparing her for the sight wouldn't be a terrible idea.

"You remember the doctor's orders, do you not, Mrs. Patmore? You are to rest before getting back into things this week."

"I remember perfectly well!" Mrs. Patmore responded.

"That means allowing Mrs. Branson the room to do her duties in the kitchen."

Mrs. Patmore turned to look at Anna as if affronted. "And what exactly were you expecting me to do, if not that?"

Anna tried to hold back a smile. "Nothing. I just don't want you to exert yourself, that's all."

Mrs. Patmore faced forward again and sat up a bit straighter, and Anna grinned.

At the end of the short trip, Pratt pulled the motor up to the garage, and the two women made their way to the service entrance. The kitchen staff was, in fact, making preparations for luncheon when they walked through the door. Of the other servants, those who were in the servants hall paused for a moment to welcome them back.

After a few minutes of greetings and pleasantries, Anna excused herself to go upstairs and change so she could unpack before resuming her duties that afternoon. Mrs. Hughes escorted Mrs. Patmore into the kitchen, where the activity slowed as Mrs. Patmore recounted her ordeal.

"So you had a good time of it, then?" Mrs. Hughes asked.

"As good as one can expect when doctors are all poking around your face," Mrs. Patmore said. Tapping the glasses with her finger, she added, "And I've these as a memento to remember it all."

"How long will you wear them?" Mrs. Hughes asked.

"A week or so. But I can see much better already, even with them on."

Behind Mrs. Hughes, Claire and Daisy were watching and smiled at one another, both happy that Mrs. Patmore had come back healthy and in good spirits.

"Well, thank heaven," Mrs. Hughes said. Turning to bring Claire into the conversation, Mrs. Hughes said, "Now, we need to talk about the garden party. Mrs. Branson and I have made some lists—"

Mrs. Patmore scoffed immediately. She'd stand aside for today, but she had no intention of letting Mrs. Branson continue to intrude into her domain any more than necessary. "Mrs. Branson!?" she exclaimed. "Oh, I think we can manage without any help from Mrs Branson."

Despite how much more smoothly things had gone for Claire at Downton after that first day, she was fully expecting Mrs. Patmore to return guns blazing. Claire's guard was up quickly. "Can you? Well, if you want your garden party to be run by a blind pugh, that's your business."

Mrs. Hughes spoke up again, hoping to avert a fight. "Mrs. Patmore, there's a lot to be done and you're only just up on your feet. We really cannot manage without Mrs. Branson."

Mrs. Patmore looked back and forth between Mrs. Hughes and Claire. Then, with a sigh, she finally replied, "If you say so."

Mrs. Hughes let out the breath she'd been holding and quickly got on with business. "Now, I've been checking the stores and I've ordered what you'll need for the baking."

"That's very kind, Mrs. Hughes," Claire said, "But, now that Mrs. Patmore is back, I believe _we_ should check the stores when it's convenient."

"Mrs. Branson, at Downton Abbey, the housekeeper manages the store cupboard, but I think you'll find—"

"I've never not run my own store cupboard in my life!" Claire said aghast. "Separate the cook for the store cupboard? Where's the sense in that?"

A flabbergasted Claire turned to the only person in the room who could possibly understand the absurdity of what Mrs. Hughes had just said—however unlikely an ally Mrs. Patmore might be, surely she would understand _this_.

And indeed, Mrs. Patmore had stood up and with an unmistakable air of delight in her expression, practically yelled out, "How long have I been saying this, O Lord!?"

Feeling supported, Claire turned back to Mrs. Hughes. "Due respect, Mrs. Hughes, but we're the ones who cook it. We should be the ones to order it."

Mrs. Patmore walked over to stand next to Claire, "Mrs. Branson, I shall be very happy with your help with the garden party. I'm sure we can manage it easily between the two of us."

Mrs. Hughes rolled her eyes and wondered whether having the two cooks at odds with one another had really been the worst thing in the world. She let out a loud sigh and left the kitchen without another word.

Daisy smiled brightly at the turn of events. Happy not to have to choose sides, as she had feared Mrs. Patmore would force her to do upon her return.

Claire, not forgetting that there was still a meal to finish, looked at Daisy and said, "Mind the souffle, dear, it's bound to be ready."

"Souffle?" Mrs. Patmore asked curiously.

"Cheese souffle, Mrs. Patmore," Claire answered getting back to the stove where she had been about to poach the salmon before Mrs. Patmore and Anna had made their entrance. "It's your recipe. Daisy found it in the pantry, said it was a favorite of the family."

Mrs. Patmore nodded, pleased. "Indeed."

Once Claire dropped the fish into the pan of boiling broth, she turned back to Mrs. Patmore. "I'll have that apology now."

Mrs. Patmore's face closed up. "For what do I have to apologize?"

"You risked this poor girl's job and my standing with my own family by asking her to sabotage me! I'm happy to be your friend and ally here, Mrs. Patmore, but let's start on even footing, shall we?"

Daisy nervously looked over her shoulder to see a red-faced Mrs. Patmore, who did her best to collect herself and control her ire. That done, she deliberately walked over to Daisy and said, "I'm sorry, Daisy."

"It-it's all right," the kitchen maid answered meekly.

Turning to Claire, Mrs. Patmore added, "I think I'll go upstairs and rest now, Mrs. Branson. You have things in hand here?"

Claire, of course, meant for Mrs. Patmore to offer an apology to herself _and _Daisy, but she smiled anyway, knowing that a battle between her and Mrs. Patmore's pride would be a fruitless one.

"We do. Thank you, Mrs. Patmore."

And with that, the cook, humbled, but only slightly, went up to her bedroom to bed.

**XXX**

A little over a week away, the garden party wasn't just on the minds of those working below stairs. As Mrs. Patmore was making her way up to her room, Cora was at the desk in the library looking over the RSVP cards that had already started to arrive. Her list of attendees was growing by the day, which pleased Cora. This would be the first time the family would hold such an event since they'd been back to Downton after their temporary departure. The season had felt a bit lackluster, but here they'd be among their closest friends and in the shadow of Downton's splendor.

Looking at the list, Cora sat back and smiled.

"You look pleased," Robert said coming into the room.

Cora turned to him, still smiling. "I am pleased. We're going to have record attendance at the garden party this year—even without having held it the last two years."

"Anyone particularly interesting?"

"The Bellasis family is coming."

"Oh? It's been a while since we've seen them," Robert said, sitting down on the sofa.

Cora came over to join him. "Well, it was to be expected. We were at Downton Place, and Roger was posted to India."

"Out of sight, out of mind, I suppose."

Cora smiled. "I thought you liked Roger."

"I do. I just never had much interest in foreign affairs—at least not those to the east, not like him, anyway."

"I'm sure Tom will enjoy talking to him."

Robert opened up the newspaper he'd walked in with, ignoring Cora's last comment.

On a different day, she might have needled Robert on his continuing pique at Tom, but she was in too good a mood now to spoil it with a quarrel. And she knew Robert still needed time.

Nevertheless, she rolled her eyes as she stood again and walked back to the desk. "His son will be coming as well. He just finished at Oxford. That's why they came back. I would have thought we'd have seen more of them in London, knowing that, but at least it will mean the girls will get the first look."

"First look at what?" Robert asked, not looking up from the newspaper.

"At Roger's son, of course. He was a handsome young man, as I remember. Anne said in her note that he is considering joining the diplomatic corps as well. The point is I think it would be nice for the girls to get reacquainted with him."

Robert chuckled. "We've not been back a week from London and you're already at it again. Can't we have a little break?"

Cora looked at him from the side of her eyes. "They have to be married, Robert. You know that as well as I do. Why you pretend that it doesn't worry you is beyond me."

"Well, he's too young for Mary," Robert said.

"They were born the same year."

"Don't you think a man should have a measure more maturity than his wife?"

"I think there are different kinds of maturity," Cora responded. After a moment, though, she sighed and said, "You're right. Given English custom, and Mary's own airs and predilections, it's likely she'll not bother with him. Given his interests I wonder whether Sybil wouldn't like him."

"I suppose it is never too early to start with her," Robert said, "though I believe she may be a tough nut to crack as far as marriage is concerned."

Cora laughed softly. "It pains me to say you're probably right on that score, but regardless, it will be good for her to start meeting people outside our family and Yorkshire acquaintances before next year."

Robert looked back down at the newspaper and just a moment later looked back up at Cora with a sad smile. "Poor old Edith. We never seem to talk about her."

"I'm afraid Edith will be the one to care for us in our old age," Cora said somewhat dismissively. not bothering to look up from what she was writing.

"What a ghastly prospect," Robert said with a sigh. "I can scarcely believe the time has come for Sybil. Doesn't it seem like yesterday Lynch was guiding her around the grounds on her first pony?"

Cora smiled and looked up to see Violet coming to the library door.

"The Dowager Countess," Carson announced.

"We were discussing Sybil, mama," Robert said, sitting back down after Violet settled in next to him.

"Oh, is she not well?"

"He means we were discussing her prospects," Cora said. "I think it will do good to try to bring her out of her shell a bit this year, before next June."

"I'd agree if I thought there was a shell to speak of when it came to Sybil," Violet responded.

"Oh, I know Sybil is not shy,_ per se_, but it wouldn't hurt for her to make some new friends."

"Shouldn't the oldest be married off first?" Violet asked.

"No one's forgotten Mary, mama," Robert said.

"Only the whole of London society," Voilet said.

Cora and Robert exchanged exasperated glances.

"If you're going to start with that, I'm going upstairs," Robert said standing and moving toward the door. "Luncheon will be soon, I expect, Carson?"

"Indeed, my lord," the butler responded from where he was standing by the door. "I'll go see to it now."

Left alone with Cora, Violet turned back to her daughter-in-law. "So you've invited someone for Sybil?"

"I didn't invite him for her, exactly, but it's Tom Bellasis, the heir to Lord Goring."

"I don't remember him. Has he been to Downton before?"

"His uncle and father have hunted with Robert, but I don't recall if the young man himself has or not. I believe I would remember. Anyway, he's been at university these last four years."

Violet took a deep breath. "Do you honestly believe he's likely to hold her attention?" She asked, her tone revealing a clear skepticism.

"You make her sound so picky. Sybil hasn't known many young men. She's bound to find him interesting."

"Oh, Cora, you are mistaken if you infer from Sybil's preference for a small social circle anything other than satisfaction with her present company."

Cora looked at Violet with a questioning expression. "Whatever do you mean?"

"You cannot tell me that you don't have some inkling as to her attachment to Tom _Branson_? Have Mary's interests so taken your attention?"

"You can't be serious," Cora said incredulous.

"I'm perfectly serious! I was here almost everyday while you were gone, and something blossomed in her. I can't say whether it's been there all along but it's there now and not easily supplanted, I dare say."

As Violet spoke, Cora moved again from the desk and sat next to her mother-in-law.

"She's still so young. It can't be more than a passing adolescent fancy."

Violet tilted her head and pursed her lips, not even bothering to vocalize a truth both she and Cora recognized in the youngest member of the family—Sybil was never one inclined to feel anything other than very deeply.

Cora sighed. "He _is_ handsome. And so good natured and well spoken and charming. It's a wonder they all didn't fall in love with him."

"You know why they other two didn't," Violet said. "The same reason, Mary balked at Matthew. Because Tom's not one of us. It's an instinct that Sybil has never possessed—understanding the expectations of her position. Her best friend is a housemaid for heaven's sake!"

Cora smiled, endeared by her youngest daughter's welcoming heart, but worried about the heartbreak that such an unprejudiced nature might bring her in the face of upper class snobbery. Then Cora thought about Tom himself, and the unspoken promise she'd made to herself to stand by him after learning his background.

"Tom _is_ one of us, Violet," Cora said, finally. "He just won't live like us. There are complications there, I'll admit, and Sybil isn't in a position now to understand what his lack of fortune as a young man means for securing her future. Our job is to present her with options, and that's what we'll do."

"And if he's the option she chooses?" Violet asked pointedly.

"Then I shall be very glad for them both, though I'm afraid Robert will never approve. I won't like contradicting him."

Violet sighed. "I wouldn't say never with Robert. But certainly, we'll not bring it to him now."

Cora narrowed her eyes. "Do _you_ plan to plead Tom's case!? I know you like him, but I wouldn't have thought he would meet with your approval to marry into the family—certainly not now that we know what we do about him."

"I know my granddaughter, just as I know my son. She'll not be told no, and Robert, well . . . he is stubborn, but he at least can be persuaded."

"That doesn't answer my question," Cora said, smiling.

"No, I don't plan to plead Tom's case with Robert. As I said I know my son, and I am confident Tom will bring him around on his own without my help."

Cora looked at Violet for a long time. "I know you'll never admit this to me, but you're very pleased about this."

"Why would I be pleased about my granddaughter wanting to marry the son of a cook?"

"Mary gets this from you," Cora said, standing.

"What are you talking about!?" Violet asked, taken aback.

Cora smiled serenely. "The desire for others to believe you a much bigger snob than you really are."

Violet held Cora's gaze, but said nothing. Eventually Cora turned and left the room.

Violet looked around the library and laughed at herself.

"Silly, isn't it?" She finally replied to no one in particular.

**XXX**

**A week later**

There was a little bit of cloud cover as the sun rose on the morning of July 18, 1913. But it was gone in a matter of hours, and by mid-morning it was apparent that the weather for the first garden party at Downton Abbey in two years was going to be perfect.

Given the amount of food that was going to be served over the course of the afternoon, Claire was up with the sun and made the walk to the big house before anyone else at Crawley House was even up—everyone, that is, except Moseley, who made it a point to be up to walk with her. Because he had his own duties to see to, Moseley only saw Claire as far as the yard outside the servants hall before heading back to the village. But it was just as well since inside, the kitchen was already such a flurry of activity that Claire barely had time to say hello before an apron and a mixing bowl were thrust in her face, Mrs. Patmore yelling out instructions to her about starting the cakes.

There was a buzz of excitement about the room, and it was contagious. Claire smiled, quickly put her things away and began to gather her ingredients in the pantry. She set things out on the end of the table across from where Mrs. Patmore was kneading the bread dough.

"It's been too long since we've had a day like this, Mrs. Branson," Mrs. Patmore said, brightly, clearly in her element. "When we were at Downton Place, I honestly thought we'd not have another."

Mrs. Patmore looked down for a moment, and held her flour covered hands together, as if taking a moment to appreciate all that it meant to be back at Downton Abbey and to have her full health again.

"I reckon the house and grounds will look lovely dressed up the for occasion," Claire said. "I'm sure it feels good to show off a bit."

Mrs. Patmore looked up, smiling again. "It does, especially when I can see it all with my own two eyes again."

Claire smiled and got to work.

A few minutes later, O'Brien, Cora's newspaper tucked under her arm, came in. Not bothering to offer a greeting to anyone, she barked out, "Her ladyship's breakfast?"

Daisy quickly brought the tray—already prepared with two slices of toast and one poached egg—over to O'Brien, who, without another word, swept out of the room as quickly as she'd swept in.

Normally, O'Brien took Cora's breakfast up a bit later in the morning, but she knew Cora would be up early with such a day ahead. When she got to the door, O'Brien knocked lightly twice to announce herself before opening the door and walking in.

"Good morning, O'Brien," said Cora, who was already sitting up on her bed. Robert, always an early riser, had already left for his dressing room.

"Good morning, my lady," O'Brien said setting the tray on her lap and unfolding her copy of The Sketch and setting it next to the tray.

"The kitchen staff is already knee deep in preparations for today, I imagine?" Cora asked as she buttered her bread.

"They are, milady," O'Brien said walking over to the windows to adjust the curtains. It was the job of the housemaids to do so first thing in the morning, but O'Brien new Cora was particular about the amount of light that was to be let in, and none on the staff ever did the job to O'Brien's satisfaction.

"Mrs. Patmore seems fully recovered now," O'Brien continued. "I was surprised to see Mrs. Branson was called to help. I wouldn't have thought her services were needed anymore."

"It's kind of her to help," Cora said taking a bit of her egg. "It's a big day."

O'Brien looked over her shoulder to watch Cora. "But does her ladyship think it wise to have her on the premises with so many guests here? Won't her presence invite the scrutiny of those who may not approve of Mr. Branson's position with the family?"

"None of the guests have reason to know of her, and certainly I don't expect any of them to find their way to the kitchens. And anyway, as far as Mr. Branson is concerned—the situation is what it is. If anyone asks, they'll be told the truth, but honestly who would even guess?"

O'Brien, turned back to the curtains again and rolled her eyes.

Having eaten her egg, Cora took the newspaper O'Brien had laid out for her and folded it so she could read as she finished her toast.

O'Brien, once finished with the curtains, walked over the the wardrobe to begin to lay out Cora's clothes for the day.

"Had any of the girls rung yet, before you came up?" Cora asked a few minutes later.

"I don't think so," O'Brien replied.

"Let's hope they all wake up on the right side of the bed this morning," Cora said.

"Is Lady Mary welcoming a potential match today?" O'Brien asked.

Cora sighed, putting the paper down and leaning back onto her pillows again. "We've invited several. Whether she will be _welcoming_ to any of them is another matter."

Noticing that Cora had finished eating, O'Brien came over, removed the tray and set it down on the bedside table.

"Your ladyship mentioned Sir Anthony Strallan before the season. Will he be among them?"

Cora moved to get out of bed, and O'Brien brought over her dressing gown.

"He will," Cora said, "though his lordship fears Sir Anthony is too old." She paused and, rolling her eyes, added, "He thinks Tom Bellasis is too young. Mary, herself, won't tell me what she thinks. But she is clear in her insinuations that I am quite a pest. And now we have Sybil to worry about. Her strong character certainly isn't going to make it any easier."

O'Brien waited for a moment, holding the dressing gown open and expecting a complaint about Edith to follow. None came.

She stepped forward indicating for Cora to turn around, wondering cynically whether Edith's lack of admirers was a result, not of her own failings, but of those of her parents. O'Brien herself had been a middle child and succumed early on to her parents expectations: work, not marriage. The duress of her life had hardened her, and at this stage she no longer minded the rougher edges of her personality. She relished in them, really. But deep down, in the recesses of her soul where the memories of a more hopeful youth resided, Sarah O'Brien had empathy and the ability to recognize neglect—even when riches and privilege hid it specially well.

"The _three_," O'Brien said, as Cora shrugged on her dressing gown. "They can't ignore your help, knowing it's in their best interests."

If Cora noticed O'Brien's emphasis, she did not show it.

"I'd like to just tell them whom to marry and be done with it. The truth is, they're all getting too old for a mother's control."

"They're growing up."

Cora walked over to her vanity and sat down, wearily. "They've grown up. They need their own establishments."

O'Brien walked up behind her to begin to take down her hair. "I'm sure they'll all get plenty of offers."

"No one ever warns you about bringing up daughters. You think it's going to be like Little Women. Instead, they're at each other's throats from dawn till dusk."

"All siblings quarrel."

Cora looked at herself in the mirror for a long moment. Feeling O'Brien's fingers in her hair, she turned abruptly.

"You know, I think I'll go see them."

"Now?"

Cora stood and made her way to the door. "I just want to make sure they start the day off right."

She walked over to Mary's room, intending to go in without knocking, but before her hand made it to the knob on the door, she heard someone behind her.

"Mama?"

It was Edith.

"What are you doing up so early?" Cora asked.

"I'm always the first at breakfast."

Cora smiled. "Of course. I guess I take mine so often in my room, I didn't notice."

Edith smiled back, and there was an eagerness in her that surprised Cora, like a tiny detail in a large painting that once discovered makes the work seem entirely new even though it has been there all along.

It was the eagerness of a young girl on the morning of her first ball. Eagerness that, despite life's best efforts, had not been wholly tapped out of Edith yet.

_Why else do unmarried women wake early but to wait for visitors? _

Cora looked back at Mary's door, then down the hall to Sybil's. Turning back to Edith, Cora's heart spit out an ugly truth: she had not intended to go to see her middle daughter, nor even thought of her on what otherwise felt like an important morning. The force of the realization hit Cora hard—so did the shame that came with it—and tears began to well in Cora's eyes.

Edith stepped forward. "Mama, is everything all right?"

Cora took a deep breath and took Edith's hands into hers. "Yes, my darling. I just . . . I wanted to tell you that I want your help in greeting guests this afternoon."

"_My_ help?"

Cora's smiled tightened, the incredulity in her daughter's voice confirming to Cora Edith's assumptions regarding her mother's disengaged affection. "Yes," she said quietly. "I want everyone to see you."

Edith smiled bashfully, but clearly pleased.

"Now, why don't you go down and have a good breakfast."

Edith nodded and then, still smiling, turned to go.

Cora knew how different her daughters were and prided herself on recognizing their differences and treating them as individuals. Had Edith not stepped out of her room in that moment on that morning, Cora might not have learned that there can also be harm in differing expectations.

Cora looked back to Mary's door. Then to Sybil's again.

_There is plenty of time for Sybil_, she thought. _Time she may not even need._

Thinking of Mary and Edith, Cora resolved to give space to the daughter who needed it and devote her attention, at least on this particular day, to the one who more obviously wanted it.

So the mother of _three_ went back into her room.

**XXX**

Later that morning, with the rest of the family, indeed the whole house, all up and about, the first guest arrived. The garden party would not start for hours yet, but Miss Imogen Wilkes had been separated from her good friend for two months, and she simply could not be asked to wait any longer. Sybil was only too happy to see her and shortly after Imogen's arrival (her parents would be coming later), the two set off arm-in-arm for a walk around the grounds.

"Hot house flowers simply do not compare to proper country gardens, my dear Sybil. How lucky you are to get to walk about these lovely blooms at your leisure. London is a dream some days, but really rather dirty and loud most of the time. New York is as well, I suppose, but it was nice to have Central Park at our doorstep, where one can take a walk and feel quite removed from the city. But we've no such recourse in our London house, at least not one so nice as that. How I miss life in the country! I know I thought it terribly boring before, so I acknowledge this is a change of mind. Oh, isn't it just like me to want only what I don't have. And so selfish, too, when you perhaps wish for the thrills of town. Do forgive me, darling."

Sybil laughed. "There's certainly no need to apologize for dissatisfaction with life. I grant that we are luckier than most and have grown up with many blessings, but what else may we feel but dissatisfaction when we are given many things to _have_, but nothing to _do_."

"Oh, how eloquently put! You did always have a marvelous way with words. Would that your family had brought you to London in June. What a time we would have had! Even without doing the season, it would have been well spent, don't you think?"

"If I may be honest, I had quite a nice time here. I love having Downton to myself and had the company of very good friends. I even learned how to ride a bicycle."

"How positively modern of you! I've seen some of the shop girls riding them along the street. They wear shorter skirts to make it easier pedal and look very smart doing it. Is it terribly fun?"

"Indeed it is. Here the roads are quiet. I imagine it's a greater challenge in the traffic of London."

"Of course, I'd never be given permission to do such a thing," Imogen said with a deep sigh.

"I don't know that papa would have given it if I'd asked, which is why I didn't."

Imogen laughed. "Naughty, Sybil! I shall take that lesson and apply it to my own purposes!"

"I do envy your London life in one respect," Sybil said. "To be among the action of the women's movement as you are, I must say, I'd happily give up the flowers and my bicycle for a chance to be in the middle of it."

"It is exciting. Unfortunately, papa has gotten increasingly strict about my support of the vote since poor Miss Davison's death last month, gruesome as it was. Not that I was allowed to do much before beyond the weekly luncheon with the committee. Oh, Sybil, aren't committee meetings the most terribly boring events that ever happen on the face of this earth? I do long to do more for the cause than eat driy scones at the tea room at Selfridge's."

"I'd like to attend the rallies in Ripon," Sybil said. "But I've not yet worked out how. Tom goes sometimes and he brings me the literature to read, but for me travel to Ripon would require the motor, which requires telling papa, who I believe would be even less inclined than yours to give permission."

"Dear Sybil, I'll be so happy when we are thought quite grown up by our parents, at least grown up enough to make our own choices. Even in the my manner of dress, they won't leave me to my own devices—and you know how I take pride in my presentation. Mama simply doesn't understand my tastes in any way. It's a year away and I already dread the choice she'll force on me for my ball. I'll have my own ideas, naturally, but compromise between us does not come easily, I'm afraid. I do wish she would trust my instincts when it comes to the latest trends and what looks best on me. Are you quite looking forward to it?"

"I am, I think," Sybil said with a smile.

Imogen leaned in conspiratorially, "Do you know what Lady Eloise Cavendish told me?"

"What?"

"A girl's first season is not complete until, she's lost a shoe, spilled wine on herself and stolen away from a ballroom to kiss someone!" Imogen giggled, then added, "I am confident as to my ability to complete the first two, but less so about the third task, I'm afraid."

Sybil looked at Imogen from the side of her eyes for a moment, weighing the extent to which she wanted to confide in her chatty friend. She'd never known Imogen to be anything but fiercely loyal, but her stolen kisses with Tom felt like little treasures to her, treasures that Sybil wanted to share only with someone who would appreciate their worth.

Tentatively, Sybil spoke. "So . . . you've never kissed anyone before?"

Imogen looked at Sybil, with quite the same question of trust in her eyes that Sybil had been asking herself moment before.

"You don't have to answer, if you think it an impertinent question," Sybil said.

"No . . . it's—well, you see, I have. I just hope you do not question my character when I tell you who it was."

"I would never question it!" Sybil said, immediately. "I hate it that women are judged harshly for experiences all creatures long to have at some point in their lives."

Imogen squeezed Sybil's arm. "I am so glad we are friends!"

Imogen looked around, as if ensuring she would not be heard by anyone other than her confidant. "It was the son our butler in New York! Isn't it rather scandalous! He's apprentice to the tailor that makes papa's suits and he was in the house once last year in the kitchen. I'd gone down to steal a bit of bread to take with me to the park to give the birds, and since I'd met him before we got to talking. We talked for quite a long time, actually. He was so handsome I was rather entranced. Before I knew it, he was leaning in—quite without permission!—but in the end I allowed it. It was lovely. Though I imagine it will be better when I'm properly in love, don't you think?"

"It'll be like heaven."

The words came out of Sybil's mouth before she realized it, but Imogen, naturally, recognized their meaning right away.

"Oh! My dearest darling, _you_ have kissed someone! Do you love him terribly? I'll take the secret to the grave, I promise."

Sybil giggled and blushed slightly. "Well . . . though I hope it is not so obvious to everyone else, you have probably guessed that I love Tom. And, yes, he has kissed me. He's not spoken to papa yet, but we'd like to marry."

"How deliciously romantic! Oh, Sybil, he seems like such a fine person. I can only imagine he'll be a perfectly wonderful husband."

"The trouble is—"

"He has no title or fortune?" Imogen cut in.

Sybil shook her head. "It makes no difference to me, but papa won't like it. To make things worse, things are already difficult between them right now because . . . well, you know that he's a solicitor—"

"A thrilling profession, I've no doubt!"

"But his parents were poor, you see. His mother is a housekeeper. I've met her and she's a wonderful person, but you know how people of our position can be."

Imogen sighed. "I'd like to believe that when there is such love, nothing else matters. But there are too many people for whom birth matters a great deal more."

Sybil smiled sadly.

"Do you know that there are still women with whom mama was acquainted as a child that look down on her for marrying papa."

Sybil's brow furrowed. "But Sir John—"

"Is rich beyond belief, yes, but he wasn't at birth. My grandmother was the daughter of a doctor and my grandfather worked on the docks in Liverpool—they lived a middle class life but it was a humble one. Papa tells people he grew up in the shipping business but that's only true in that he learned the trade from a father who started at the bottom. Those who do not know him well assume he inherited his business like every other upper class son. I confess I am not patient with mama, but that's because before coming here, I didn't know that the daughter of a duke would take abuse for marrying a man like papa, despite our living in the biggest house on the square! It is our money that maintains uncle's lands. He is a duke by birth, but _his grace_ wasted everything else away with drink and gambling. I used to think that mama married papa for his money, but now I know the truth—she grew up surrounded by gentlemen who could not be counted on. She chose a man in industry because a successful working man would not squander prosperity born of labor."

Imogen turned to face Sybil and took both her hands in hers. "Sybil, I am a spoiled child who is quite used to a life that offers me much more than I need. Luckily for me, the fortune my father has made is not tied to a title like your father's. I will have something substantial to give my husband even if he has nothing but love to give me. Your situation is different, but you are also different. Tom may not be able to give you what you have at Downton, but luckily for you, you have been blessed with a desire to experience a life that's quite removed from this one. Isn't that marvelous!?"

Sybil, now smiling, threw her arms around Imogen. "I am so glad we are friends!"

Imogen returned her friend's embrace eagerly. When they pulled away, Imogen tucked Sybil's arm into hers again and said, "Now, we just need to find _me_ a suitable beau!"

"I've no doubt mama has ensured there are plenty of candidates here today."


	32. Chapter 32

_Thank you, thank you, for reading and reviewing! Please keep doing it as it helps keep me going :) _

_Quick note before we start: I completely forgot to include this in my note for last chapter, but the "Miss Davison" whose death Imogen makes reference to is Emily Davison, a suffragette who died in June 1913 after she jumped onto a racetrack to disturb a horse race to bring attention to the suffrage movement. The show itself makes reference to her in the speech that Sybil is listening to at the rally she attends at the start of the second to last episode of series one (the one at which Isobel is also present)._

_In this chapter, there are also historical references to the Balkan Wars, which were the preamble to WWI, and to Irish politics, including a vote by the House of Lords in June 1913 that rejected a Home Rule Bill for Ireland that was passed by the House of Commons. That vote was the third time that the Lords had rejected that bill. Eventually the Commons went straight to the king and the bill was passed by Royal Assent, but World War I started before the bill could be enacted. As Earl of Grantham, Robert has a position in the House of Lords, but in this story he does not participate in politics and doesn't attend votes, at least in part because of his disillusionment stemming from having lost Downton. _

_I don't pretend to know anything beyond what anyone can find on wikipedia, when it comes to the historical backdrop of this story, so I apologize for any and all mistakes. No offense intended._

_This is basically a series of short scenes from throughout the afternoon of the garden party._

_Anyway, picking up where we left off . . ._

* * *

Just as the garden party was about to start, Pratt headed to Crawley House to pick up Isobel, Matthew and Tom as well as Moseley and Ivy, who would be assisting the staff. But when Pratt arrived, the weather was so pleasing that Matthew and Tom decided to walk.

"We'll see you soon," Isobel called out as a the motor pulled away. Before leaving the house, she had been delighted to see them both in their linen suits. Tom was always loathe to wear anything particularly "fancy," but the tails had become such routine by now that talking him into this was rather easy.

The hat was another matter.

Even as he walked with Matthew, he was still fidgeting with it.

"Good God, man, it's just a hat."

"It doesn't sit right on my head. Who ever heard of straw as material to make a proper man's hat."

"Thousands of milliners through the centuries. It's hardly a new invention."

"Well, I don't like it," Tom said petulantly, making Matthew laugh.

"You don't like anything."

"And you like everything," Tom said with a chuckle.

After walking in companionable silence for a few minutes, Tom asked casually, "Do you know who will be attending today?"

"I'm not sure. Mother said the hospital board and other benefactors have been invited, though I assume most will be social acquaintances of the family."

"I suppose we'll be seeing something of the Downton of old."

Matthew chuckled. "Except the likes of us would not have been invited before."

Tom laughed for a moment, but Matthew's joke, however lightheartedly intended, was a reminder of his present standing with Robert.

Sensing this Matthew said, "Robert won't hold a grudge forever, you know."

Tom laughed again, this time somewhat mirthlessly. "Robert's current opinion is of no consequence to me, at least as far as the immediate future is concerned."

"Isn't it?"

"I am genuinely sorry that things can't be as they were between us, but I won't go out of my way to please him. How could that be possible, anyway, when the cause of his ire is something about myself I cannot change."

"And what about Sybil? Robert's opinion of you is of consequence to her."

Tom smiled thinking of her, which in turn made Matthew smile, seeing how far gone his friend was. "I certainly don't want to make things worse, but even if I believed that time will soften him, I can't imagine that a week will have sufficed."

"So your plan to avoid him is to continue?"

"I'm not avoiding him!"

"You clear out of dinner immediately after it's finished!"

Tom smiled again—and if Matthew had been looking at him directly, he'd have noticed a slight blush in his cheeks, too. Because Tom's current habit of leaving the Downton Abbey dining room with the ladies had little to do with Robert and everything to do with Sybil. While it remained true that the current rift between Tom and Robert made his future with her a bit complicated, in the present, it allowed the young couple a few precious minutes alone after dinner without raising too much suspicion. Something of a ritual had developed while Mrs. Patmore was gone and the whole family was dining at Downton every night, and they both missed their secret meetings upon Mrs. Patmore's return.

Eventually, Tom turned to Matthew and said, "It's not avoidance, just giving him a wide berth."

"And here I thought you might ask him about the Lords' rejection of the Home Rule Bill again."

Tom looked at Matthew from the side of his eyes. "I would if I knew the man bothered to vote at all. But thank you for reminding me of what I hate most about the aristocracy just as I'm dressed as a proper fop and expected to be deferential and charming to the bloody lot of them this afternoon. If my temper flares and I knock someone's lights out, I shall blame you."

Matthew laughed. "We can dine at the Grantham Arms this evening if it will make you feel better."

"It would actually, as long as I can dispense with this silly hat."

A short while later, Tom and Matthew walked around the house to the gardens and saw that a small crowd had already begun to gather. They spotted Robert and Cora standing under a tent near the driveway greeting guests as they arrived. Edith was standing near them, talking with a threesome Matthew recognized immediately as the Grey family. When he pointed them out to Tom, the latter couldn't help but laugh.

"Do you think Larry will grant me the honor of acknowledging my presence this time?" Tom asked, jokingly.

"Do you really want him to?" Matthew asked in response.

"Not in the slightest."

Matthew laughed. After a moment, he asked, a bit tentatively, "Shall we go say hello?"

Tom sighed. "Robert looks like he's enjoying himself. I'll spare him the discomfort of seeing me."

Matthew sighed. "All right then."

Tom scanned the crowd and saw Sybil, who had been left by Imogen only reluctantly, when the Wilkes had arrived and had asked their daughter to remain with them, at least at the start, so they could greet other guests as a family. Sybil now was talking with Isobel and Violet, and after Tom pointed them out to Matthew, the two young men headed in different directions.

As Tom walked toward the trio of women, Thomas walked past him, and Tom grabbed a flute of champagne off the tray he was carrying. All three women smiled, Sybil brightest of all, which, of course, did not escape Violet's notice. Violet shook her head slightly, a small smile threatening at the corners of her lips, as she thought about how Cora's attempts to steer Sybil in a different direction were likely to be so much wasted effort.

Looking back at Tom as he came closer, Violet raised her eyebrows, a bit taken by how nice he looked in Sunday finery. His confidence for so young a man sometimes reminded Violet or her own husband, who, like Tom, was proud to a fault, always eager for an argument and generally the cleverest person in the room. The comparison amused Violet because she was sure neither man would appreciate it. It was, perhaps, this demeanor in Tom that had ultimately endeared him to her. Tom believed wholeheartedly that he belonged wherever he chose to be, and despite how traditional she was in all other respects, Violet liked that about him. It also made her confident that Tom would give Sybil the life she deserved—however foreign that life might be to the one Violet herself had lived.

Stepping up to them, Tom smiled. "You seem surprised to see me," he said, looking at Violet.

"Only surprised to see that you have dressed for the occasion," she responded.

He laughed lightly. "My breeding may hinder my social graces, not my ability to look the part."

"Nor your ability to mock the game or the other players, I'm sure."

Tom laughed again, heartily this time, and it pleased both Isobel and Sybil to see that despite Robert's cool attitude toward him at the moment, Violet was as warm to Tom as ever.

**XXX**

After the bulk of the guests had been greeted, Cora encouraged Robert to talk with Sir Anthony Strallan, who had arrived with his sister, Mrs. Chetwood. Cora had met her in London in June, and she had intimated that her brother was interested in marrying again.

When Robert found him, Anthony was deep in conversation with Imogen's father, Sir John Wilkes, about political happenings on the continent in the wake of Bulgaria's attack on Serbia and Greece a month before.

"Greek ports have been essential to us," Robert heard John say as he approached the two men. "Instability in the region would be most unwelcome."

Seeing Robert approach, Anthony smiled. "Lord Grantham, do you have thoughts on the unrest in Europe?"

"I don't I'm afraid, other than to wish that those on the eastern edges of the continent learn to differentiate fits of pique from acts of war."

John chuckled for a moment, then said, "Anthony tells me you served together in the Boer Wars."

"Indeed," Robert said with a nod, "though I cannot claim to have distinguished myself as Anthony did."

"Did you ever consider a foreign posting?" John asked, turning to Anthony.

"It wasn't for me," Anthony replied. "Outside of duty to king and country, my heart has no desire but to reside in this county."

"Never was particularly adventurous, my brother."

All three men turned to see Mrs. Chetwood approach.

Five years younger than her older brother, Delilah Chetwood, nee Strallan, had long ago married off her only son, and having no other children—and as yet no grandchildren—onto whom to project her motherly instincts, she had turned her attentions to her brother, who welcomed them only reluctantly.

"Pardon me, gentlemen, but I wonder if I may steal my brother away from what I am sure is a splendid conversation. I promise to return him in due course."

Robert and John both smiled as Mrs. Chetwood led Anthony away.

"Anthony, we've been here an hour and you haven't even spoken to Lady Mary!" She whispered once the two were a safe distance away.

"When we arrived you said it was deeply important that I converse with Lord Grantham, so I may be in his good graces."

"Yes, but what good will those graces do if the prey doesn't know it's being pursued."

"You make it sound like I'm out on a hunt."

"You are!"

"Delilah—"

"All I'm saying is that she needs to get to know you—how are you to find a wife if you won't bother looking for one? I expect that short of Lady Grantham and myself you've not spoken to a single female here."

"I spoke with Lady Edith, or don't you remember her greeting us alongside her parents. She was sweet."

"Oh, Anthony, surely even you can see that Mary is the prize to be won! Edith _is_ sweet, but rather a plain girl and she's made no impression on anyone in London."

"She's a lovely girl, and you gossip far too much."

"I only collect information that's to your benefit."

Anthony rolled his eyes, not bothering to offer a reply.

"For example," Mrs. Chetwood continued. "Since Mr. Napier pursued Mary last year and was rebuffed, there's been plenty of talk as to why, most of it seeking to find fault in her. I don't believe any of that talk, myself, but perhaps you can use it to your advantage."

"Delilah, don't be ridiculous."

"I'm only looking out for your interests," Mrs. Chetwood said, pouting in much the same way she did as a child, when she wanted to get her way.

Anthony smiled in spite of himself. "All right then, I'll talk with her, but I certainly can't promise that she'll want to marry me."

"Just try, Anthony. You deserve to be happy."

There was sincerity behind those last words, and Anthony recognized it and was grateful for it. He smiled and said, "Lead the way, then."

**XXX**

After Anthony had left them, Robert and John had continued talking about this and that, eventually landing on the topic of the past London season. Remembering his conversation with Cora the week prior regarding Sybil and what awaited her a year hence, Robert sought to commiserate with John on how quickly fathers must let go of their daughters.

"Imogen was still a girl when we left for New York," John said in response. "And she remains a girl in my own eyes, but to everyone else, now she is a woman. Priscilla is already making plans for next year. Is it easier for you with Sybil, having already been around the track with the first two?"

"I wish it were, but each has been a unique challenge," Robert said with a sigh. "And Sybil is so headstrong, I almost pity the young men who will line up to ask her to dance, let alone ask for her hand."

"The loss of Patrick must have been a great disappointment for Mary," John said quietly. "I'm so very sorry, but Matthew and Tom both seem of strong character and stock. Are matches not to be found there?"

"No," Robert said, taking a drink, suddenly wishing he'd avoided the topic, it having led to this. After a moment, he added, "I'm proud to have Matthew as heir. He's a wonderful person, but he . . . well, he is still getting used to this life. Perhaps if the girls had met him under different circumstances . . . "

"And Tom?"

Robert took another drink.

John blinked a few times, surprised at Robert's seeming reticence to discuss someone he had delighted in only months ago.

Robert momentarily considered telling John the whole truth about, but he held off, saying only, "Tom would never be content with the life that my daughters know."

"So much the better," John said, with a soft chuckle. "I told Tom when we were here last that I have interests in Cork, if he ever thought of going back to Ireland and wanted a position."

Robert regarded John curiously. In speaking of Tom's discontent with country living, Robert had been speaking of Tom's philosophical and political opposition to it. John had understood Robert's words more simply as a desire in Tom to leave the village of Downton behind.

Hearing no response from Robert, John turned to look at Robert for a moment said, "Tom's desire to expand the boundaries of his world beyond his current confines is a good thing, Robert. I would be more wary of a young man with no ambition."

Turning back to watch the grounds and the people milling about, John continued, "You have led a good life, and I am proud to be your friend, but not all men of your position hold it with your same dignity. Priscilla's brother is a disgrace, I don't mind saying. If it would save my daughter from a titled libertine like him, I would be happy to have a middle class son-in-law."

Not sure how else to respond, Robert smiled.

**XXX**

Seeing Cora sitting alone under the tent for the first time all afternoon, Violet walked over to her.

Cora noticed Violet approach, and when her mother-in-law was near enough, Cora asked, "Have you enjoyed yourself this afternoon?"

"I have, although I've just spent the last quarter of an hour listening to Miss Imogen Wilkes, and I'm rather exhausted," she said sitting down.

"Sweet girl, and a good friend to Sybil."

"And never uses one word when twenty will do."

Cora smiled.

"I also chatted with Mrs. Anne Bellasis and her son."

Cora raised her eyebrows. "Oh, what did you think?"

"Do you really want to know?" Violet asked pointedly.

Cora rolled her eyes, and said, "Not if that's going to be your tone, no."

"I'll tell you this: I think your time is best spent on Mary and Edith."

"It's not that I don't like Tom . . ."

"Why do you seem disappointed, then?" Violet asked.

"It's not disappointment. It's just . . . Sybil is so beautiful. Watching her grow up, I always thought she could have her pick."

"And what makes you think she hasn't had exactly that?"

Cora playfully narrowed her eyes at Violet. "Are you pushing this simply because you enjoy being against me?"

"No, but it's an added perk." Violet took a deep breath, and continued, "You'll find, Cora, that when you let go of what you wish for your children and accept what they wish for themselves, you will be a happier parent."

Cora smiled. "Thank you, that's good advice."

"You'd have realized it eventually, as all mothers do. But I hate waiting for people to catch up."

**XXX**

Unaware as to the extent to which she'd been a topic of conversation between her mother and grandmother and as to any potential match-making on her mother's part, Sybil enjoyed talking with Tom, Imogen, her sisters, family friends she had not seen since before the move to and return from Downton Place, and several acquaintances from the borstal charity in Ripon that she, Mary and Edith sometimes patronized.

Additionally, Isobel introduced Sybil to a member of the hospital board who was active locally in the suffrage movement. After that engaging conversation—and a promise from Isobel that she would be Sybil's steadfast supporter if and when Sybil broached the topic of political rallies with her father—Sybil looked around the grounds in search of Imogen or Tom. She smiled spotting them talking to one another and moved to walk in their direction when she felt a tap on her shoulder.

It was Larry Grey, wearing his usual self-satisfied expression.

"We've hardly talked since I arrived, Sybil. It's been almost a year. I thought you'd be eager to catch up, but I'm rather wondering if you're avoiding me."

"Why would I avoid you, Larry?"

"Last time we saw each other it was your birthday. You were cross with me."

Sybil's brow furrowed. "That's because you insulted my friend."

"Surely, you can let bygones be bygones?"

"I can, but only if you don't insist on making this interaction between us as unpleasant as the last."

"Is he here, your Irish friend?"

Sybil looked at him suspiciously. "Why do you want to know?"

"There was a vote on home rule this week. Perhaps he'll want to discuss it. He should know that it was done for Ireland's own good. Wasn't it Bellasis?"

Sybil turned and saw a young man, about Larry and Tom's age standing a few feet away. He'd turned when hearing his name, and approached Sybil and Larry looking at the latter with a skeptical expression.

"I don't know what you are talking about, Grey, but I know you, so I'll go ahead and disagree."

"I was simply telling my friend Lady Sybil that Ireland is best off as part of the British Empire. The Irish people have hardly proven themselves capable of home rule, which is why the lords rejected it. It's the third time now, you'd think the Commons would get message."

The young man laughed. "I believe the only message will be from the Commons directly to the king that they've no need of the Lords. And Ireland will survive. The famine couldn't kill her, certainly independence won't."

Turning to Sybil with a bright smile, he said, "Mr. Grey appears to have no interest in introducing me, so I shall do it myself, Mr. Tom Bellasis. Lady Sybil Crawley, I presume?"

"Yes," Sybil said, with a slight nod, taking the hand he had held out to her.

"Pleased to make your acquaintance," he said, bowing slightly. "This is rather forward of me, Lady Sybil, but I wonder that I might invite you to say hello to my mother. She said she wanted to see you again."

He put out his arm, intending for her to take it, which Sybil did tentatively and he led her off into the crowd, leaving an annoyed Larry behind. Once they were out of Larry's sight, he stopped. Sybil let go of his arm and looked around.

"Which is she?"

"Who?"

Sybil narrowed her eyes at him. "Your mother?"

"Oh," he said with a laugh. "That was a ruse. You didn't seem to be enjoying the conversation, so I thought I'd save you from it."

Sybil let out a short laugh, but still regarded him a bit skeptically. "You didn't have to do that."

"I suppose it was rather presumptuous of me, wasn't it? Perhaps you find it more tiresome to talk to a person you've never met before than you do to a tosser like Larry Grey."

"No, I mean. If I needed saving, I could have done it myself. I'm not afraid of Larry."

"Well, you're braver than I, that's certain."

Sybil laughed in spite of herself.

The young man had dark brown hair and blue eyes. His face was more handsome than most. His smile was bright, pleased at having amused her.

"How do you know Larry?" Sybil asked.

"We were at Oxford together. How do you?"

"Our parents are old friends," Sybil answered. She tilted her head slightly and asked, "Do you really support Irish independence or were you just trying to rile him up?"

"I won't deny that I enjoy doing that very much so I often exaggerate our disagreements, but in this case, he and I are, in fact, on opposite sides of the question."

"Really?"

"That surprises you?"

"It's a rare opinion among the aristocracy."

He raised his eyebrows, impressed, "You seem well versed in the issue."

"I have a friend with a keen interest in it."

"Well, some gentlemen derive Britain's greatness from her holdings around the world, but I am of the mind that empire breeds instability. We have gained much by our colonialism, but we are in a position to be made to pay dearly for it. I say give independence where it is sought and offer the friendship of commerce where it is welcome."

"Very well put. But then, what makes Britain great, in your mind, if not her dominions around the world."

"Her people."

"All of them or just men?"

He smiled. "Are you asking me if I support women's suffrage?"

"Do you?" Sybil asked pointedly.

"If I didn't, I'd be afraid to answer in the negative, knowing your fearlessness as I do now, but luckily for me, I do support it, to my father's eternal dismay."

Sybil grinned at his response. "Have you made very many new friends today?" She asked.

"None except for you."

"Well, follow me and you shall have two more," Sybil said, moving on quickly, assuming he'd offer his arm again and not wanting to give him a false impression. She spotted Tom and Imogen, who were still talking, and headed in their direction. Imogen spotted Sybil first and motioned to Tom, whose back was facing the direction from whence Sybil was approaching them. Both smiled as they saw Sybil coming and both looked over her shoulder to watch the young man two strides behind her, who appeared to be coming toward them as well.

Sybil walked around Tom to stand next to Imogen and took her arm subtly giving a gentle squeeze.

"May I present Miss Imogen Wilkes and Mr. Tom Branson. This is Mr. Tom Bellasis. You will both be delighted to know that he supports freedom for Ireland as well as for women."

Mr. Bellasis smiled a bit bashfully, shaking the hand of Tom first as he was closest and then stepping forward to take Imogen's.

"Your opinions do you credit, Mr. Bellasis," Imogen said, "but we are all rather picky when it comes to welcoming new people—none more than I am. So be our friend you must pledge to be nothing short of a true radical. For that, we've come to discover, is what is required for young women to be taken seriously in this world. And if you won't take Sybil and I and our interest in the women's vote seriously, you simply won't do. What do you say?"

Mr. Bellasis opened his mouth, but he was quiet at a loss for words. It was a rare thing to meet _one_ progressive and outspoken and beautiful young lady. Here were two.

In his silence, Sybil looked at Imogen and said. "He studied at Oxford. I'd hardly consider that a hotbed of dissent, but I believe he has potential."

"I do like the look of him," Imogen replied, continuing to talk as if the subject of conversation weren't directly in front of her.

"But will it be confusing to have_ two_ friends who are called Tom?" Sybil asked.

"Indubitably," Imogen replied.

Mr. Bellasis looked over at Tom, with a puzzled expression. "Are they always like this?"

Tom shrugged. "I've never seen them behave like this before."

"Should we be worried?" Mr. Bellasis asked.

Tom tried to catch Sybil's eyes to discern her intentions, wondering for a moment if she was trying her hand at matchmaking, but Sybil was too busy looking back and forth between her old friend and her new acquaintance to notice.

"Very worried," Tom finally answered.

Sybil and Imogen laughed at this, which, in turn, made Tom laugh. Mr. Bellasis was still unsure as to whether he'd met their approval, but having no other recourse, he laughed as well.

**XXX**

Mary didn't mind Sir Anthony Strallan's company. He was old. Far too old, she believed. And his interests didn't seem to go beyond his farms and his automobiles, but he was a nice enough gentleman. He'd not been in London for the season, but Mary had met his sister, who was in obvious pursuit of a new sister-in-law. Mary understood that that was why he'd been invited here, and while Mary was happy to smile and nod now so as to pass the time, she had absolutely no intention of encouraging him.

"Well?"

Mary looked back up at Anthony, who was clearly expecting a response to a question she'd not bothered to hear.

"Oh, you must pardon me, Sir Anthony," Mary said, not missing a beat. "I was just thinking about how lovely the day has turned out, and I didn't hear your question."

Anthony smiled, and Mary momentarily wondered if he'd misconstrued her words and had thought that when she'd called the day "lovely" she was referring to his company rather than merely the weather.

"I was asking if you found the season as enjoyable as my sister did."

"London is always an interesting diversion, but it's nice to be back home," Mary said, trying to sound as neutral as possible.

Anthony smiled again. "I too prefer the country. London living is far too tedious. My sister says she enjoys the theater too much to live elsewhere, but I must confess a play that will keep me awake beyond the first act has not yet been written."

Mary smiled politely and took a sip of her champagne.

Looking around, she noticed Matthew not too far away talking with Edith. As if she'd willed him to do so, Matthew looked up and their eyes met.

He smiled warmly and waved. Then just as quickly as he'd spotted her, he turned back to Edith.

Mary's expression softened with something like longing, and her heart tightened. It was a feeling that did not feel familiar or comfortable.

Jealousy.

She turned back toward Anthony, who was speaking again, and again, she wasn't listening.

Matthew and Edith were not getting married now—this much Mary knew. But they were close in a way that made Mary wonder whether they still might someday. As that image flashed across her mind, Mary once again felt the pang of regret that came whenever she thought about her unwillingness to give him a chance, when her parents had insisted. It had been a long time since those first few weeks when her anger and grief over the events that had brought Matthew into her life clouded their interactions. She believed they were proper friends now, and she'd come to enjoy their conversations. But still, she couldn't help but see that he remained a tiny bit wary with her in a way she could tell he wasn't with Edith or Sybil.

If she'd been listening to Anthony just then, Mary would have heard him stop speaking to her and greet someone who was coming up behind her. As it was, she was startled to see that it was the very person she'd been thinking about and the surprise was such that a slight blush came over her pale cheeks.

Matthew and Anthony exchanged pleasantries, having met earlier that afternoon. Not wanting it to seem as if he was overstepping his welcome with Mary, Anthony excused himself and left the two alone.

Turning to her, Matthew said, "I should apologize. It wasn't my intention to drive him off."

"Don't. I'm glad to be rid of him. His anecdotes were trying my patience."

Matthew's brow furrowed a bit, but he smiled. "I couldn't have guessed from looking at you, so you played your part very well."

Mary smiled. "Feining interest is a skill I come by rather easily, but even so I wish you wouldn't tease me. You have no idea how tedious it is to be a woman thought by everyone to be in dire need of a husband."

"Do _you_ think you need a husband?"

"That's a question for you to answer."

"Me?"

"Without a husband, I'll have no home but Downton, which becomes yours after papa is gone. If your plan is to turn me out, I suppose I'll have to marry eventually."

Matthew looked at her seriously. "Do you really think I would do that?"

Mary opened her mouth to say something else that was glib and cutting, but there was something behind his eyes that stopped her. "No, I know you wouldn't, but you will marry someday and you would do what your wife asked you to, even if it meant not being able to help me."

"You're wrong about that," he said quietly. "Downton will be your home as long as you choose. No matter what."

Mary smiled, slightly, a bit taken aback by his words. "Thank you."

They looked at one another for a long moment, then Matthew, eager to dissipate the sudden thickness in the air between them, looked around and saw that Edith had gone to talk with Cora.

Mary followed his eyes and said, "Mama seems to have focused her match-making attentions on Edith today. Would that it had happened sooner."

"Perhaps Edith will find a husband among the eligible suitors here," Matthew said.

"She can take the lot of them," Mary said, making Matthew laugh.

_Except_, Mary thought looking at Matthew, _for you_.

**XXX**

Inside the kitchens, things continued to run smoothly throughout the afternoon, so smoothly, in fact, that one could forgive Mrs. Patmore and Mrs. Branson for practically jumping out of their skin when, out of nowhere, a shrill sound unlike any they'd ever heard pierced the otherwise happy din emanating from the kitchen.

It was the telephone.

"Oh, my Lord, listen to that!" Cried Mrs. Patmore as the device rang. "It's like the cry of a banshee!"

Claire followed the sound into the butler's pantry. She poked her head back out and said, "It's Mr. Carson's telephone that's ringing."

Mrs. Patmore looked at Claire wondering what she was supposed to do with that information.

"Well, isn't anyone going to answer it?" Claire asked.

"I wouldn't touch that thing with a ten-foot pole!" Mrs. Patmore declared.

Claire rolled his eyes. "Well, I will then."

Walking back into the room, she looked at the device, guardedly. She'd seen Moseley make use of the one at Crawley House once, but was not entirely sure how exactly it worked.

Finally, she grabbed the earpiece and tentatively held it to her ear.

After a moment, a voice came through, so loudly that she almost dropped the piece in her hand.

"IS MR. CARSON THERE?"

Composing herself as quickly as she could, Claire picked up the mouthpiece and spoke into it.

"N-no, Mr. Carson is busy, but may I take a message?"

"This is Mr. Martin Bromidge with the telephone company, I wanted to let him know that the young lady who interviewed for a position has been accepted, so he could pass along the message. I've sent her a letter in the post today that should arrive tomorrow with details as to her job and salary. She'll be expected to start within a month."

"And what might the young lady's name be?" Claire asked.

"Miss Dawson. She was recommended by Lady Sybil," he answered.

Claire perked up recognizing the news she was receiving and how welcome it would be. "Oh, yes, I'll pass along the message. Thank you, very much, Mr. Bromidge."

With that, Claire hung up the phone. Stepping out of Carson's pantry, she saw Joseph, one of the hallboys, walking by and called out to him.

"Joseph, would you mind terribly, going out to the serving tent and telling Alfred to go fetch Mr. Branson."

Joseph nodded and did as he was told, and an excited and anxious Claire went to the yard outside to wait for her son.

When Alfred tapped Tom on the shoulder and told him he was needed in the house, Tom was still conversing with Mr. Bellasis, Imogen and Sybil. He excused himself and after stepping away, asked Alfred what the trouble was.

"I confess I don't know," Alfred answered. "All Joseph said was that there was a telephone call in the kitchen and that Mrs. Branson was looking for you."

Puzzled, Tom headed toward the service entrance, where his mother was waiting for him, but not before glancing back to the trio he'd left behind. He noticed that once he'd gone, Sybil had stepped away as well, confirming in his mind, what Sybil had been trying to do—or rather the spark that Sybil had been trying to light between Imogen and Mr. Bellasis.

He walked quickly around the house.

"Is there something wrong, mam?" He asked as he approached Claire.

He knew immediately that the answer was no, when he saw the grin on her face. "I have news!" She said excitedly.

"Out with it, then!"

"Mr. Bromidge called to say that he's taking on Miss Dawson!"

Tom's eyes widened. "Are you serious!?"

"He's written her a letter that'll arrive tomorrow, but he rung to share the news more quickly. I wanted to tell you first because I thought you might enjoy seeing the look on her face when you tell her."

Tom smiled. "That's kind of you, mam, but Gwen and I are not that close. You may tell her directly."

Claire rolled her eyes. "That's not the _her_ I'm talking about."

When it dawned on him that his mother had told him first, so he could share the news with _Sybil_, he grabbed her and kissed her on the cheek, then set off running.

He spotted Sybil talking with Edith and two other young women. Not bothering with any niceties, he interrupted their conversation, touching Sybil's arm lightly and pulling slightly her away. She furrowed her brow in question, which he answered by leaning into her and whispering in her ear, "Gwen got the job."

The happiness in Sybil's face was unlike anything Tom had ever seen. The light that turned on inside her magnified and brightened a countenance that was already, in his mind, too beautiful to bear. But he only beheld it for a second before she was off and running, pulling him with her with a breathless, "Oh, sorry!" to the shocked women they left behind.

"How did you know?" She asked as she scanned the crowd for Gwen.

"He rang just now," Tom answered.

Finally, Sybil saw Gwen walking toward the service tent while holding a large tray. Sybil and Tom ran toward her, and Gwen, seeing them coming from the side of her eyes, turned in their direction.

"Mr. Bromidge has rung!" Sybil blurted out, quite unable to contain herself. "You've done it, Gwen, you got the job!"

If Lily, her fellow housemaid, had not walked by just then, Gwen might have heaved the tray she was holding up into the air in celebration. Thankfully, Lily did happen to be walking by, and Gwen thrust the tray at her, yelling, "TAKE IT! TAKE IT!"

Unburdened, Gwen saw fit to do nothing but leap into the waiting arms of the two people who had made her dream come true.

The embrace was joyful but short for no sooner had Tom and Sybil wrapped their arms around Gwen so tightly they lifted her clear off the ground, that Mrs. Hughes was upon them.

"Something to celebrate?" She asked, a warning in her tone.

"I got the job, Mrs Hughes!" Gwen said excitedly. "I'm a secretary! I've begun!"

"I'm very happy for you, Gwen. And we'll celebrate _after_ we've finished today's work."

Gwen nodded, remembering her place, and quickly said, "Of course, Mrs Hughes."

But even as she walked away, Gwen felt like she was walking on air. The Archbishop of Canterbury himself could chastise her right now, and she'd feel no sting. Because she'd done it. She was on her way.

Mrs. Hughes watched her go and then turned back to the young people in front of her, who were standing more closely together that Mrs. Hughes considered appropriate and were holding hands. Mrs. Hughes might have said something to them, but it was not her place.

Before she turned away again, it was Tom who spoke. "Deepest apologies, Mrs. Hughes. It was wrong to interrupt Gwen as she worked, but as you can imagine, it was news that was difficult to contain. Can you blame us when it made Gwen so happy?"

Mrs. Hughes smiled. "I can't blame you. I'll be sorry to see her go, for she was a good worker, but I thank you both for supporting her."

After Mrs. Hughes left them, Tom looked back to Sybil, who was still clutching his hand tightly.

Her face was beaming with happiness. "I don't suppose," she said, "that you'll be convinced to sneak away so that I may kiss you to thank you for letting me give her the news."

Tom thought his knees might buckle, hearing Sybil's words. "I'd love nothing more, but I'm afraid there are a few too many witnesses."

Sybil sighed, still radiating happiness. "You're probably right.

So the two turned back around and, letting go of one another, walked back to join the crowd.

Tom had been right. In fact, two people had witnessed what had just transpired from a distance and understood from what they'd seen the nature of Tom and Sybil's relationship. One was Cora. The other was Tom Bellasis. Both were left a little bit disappointed.

Thankfully, for all parties involved, the disappointment would eventually prove fleeting.


	33. Chapter 33

_So sorry for the delay in updating, dear readers! I've been out of town for a few weeks so while I've had some time to write, it's been hard not being in my regular routine. But thank you, as always, for your lovely comments._

_This chapter is another one that I've had to split into two—what can I say, I am verbose ;) It starts with Gwen's departure from Downton, then skips ahead a month and brings us to the preparations for the flower show, then the dinner with Anthony as guest. The next chapter will pick up in the drawing room after dinner and take us to the flower show itself. There is some Sybil/Tom as well as more M/M and the seeds of E/A starting to sprout. Lots of repurposed dialogue from the show, into which I've weaved in my own so that it fits with the circumstances as I have drawn them here. _

_One quick note. I know that in the last two chapters Cora has been a bit disappointing. There is a little more of that here with regard to the pressure she is putting on Mary to get married. Cora is not a bad person, but in her mind, success as a mother is marrying her daughters off to wealthy, titled men. If she didn't approve of Tom and Sybil right away, when Violet told her, it isn't because she dislikes Tom but because she always believed that Sybil's beauty would draw interest from society's richest, most eligible bachelors. She is frustrated by the fact that Sybil has chosen someone before she's had the chance to be introduced to such men. Violet accepts Tom because she knows Sybil would never have been interested in those men anyway. Cora feels she could have convinced Sybil to give them a chance in the same way she feels she can convince Mary to give Anthony a chance, despite Mary's protestations to the contrary. _

_Lastly, I want to point out that I think Laura Carmichael is gorgeous. The show does what it can to make her seem mousy. It's clear we're supposed to think she's pretty but not stunning the way Mary is and not a natural beauty like Sybil. So if I ever write anything acknowledging that, I just want people to know it's a reflection of who the character is supposed to be, not of the actress, who, again, is lovely. _

_Anyway, on with the show . . . _

* * *

Standing in the now half-empty room, Gwen could see that it was rather large in size. The bed was comfortable. She'd had her own desk. The wardrobe, though they'd had to share it, had easily accommodated their modest number of belongings. In truth, it was more than many people she knew could dream of.

She remembered clear as day walking in for the first time.

She was sixteen years old. In one hand she clutched tightly the small carpet bag that held everything she owned at the time. In the other a letter from her mother.

_If you work hard perhaps you shall rise to be a housekeeper or a lady's maid. Imagine that, my girl! Born in a one-room farmhouse, now at home in a castle._

Gwen laughed now as she thought of her mother, a mother whose lessons about hard work had started Gwen on a path that had brought her to this juncture. The mother had believed this room was the end. The daughter knew now that this room had only marked the beginning. The mother had not lived a life that allowed her to conceive of a future beyond this room. The daughter knew now that her mother's sacrifices amid such a life were what had given the daughter the ability to do so. And it had been the mother's words in that letter that had given the daughter the belief it could be done. For what was the difference, really, between believing that the child of a farmhand could grow up to be a secretary and believing she could grow up to be a lady's maid?

"Hey, now! What are those tears!? This is a happy moment!"

Gwen turned to see Anna at the door and quickly moved to wipe her cheeks.

"I didn't even notice I was crying," she said with a laugh.

"I'm the one that should be crying," Anna said. "You're off on a big adventure, and I'm left here with Lily, Madge, Alice and Kitty, and you know how they all are about pulling their weight."

Gwen sighed. "I've half a mind to stay. What if I'm rubbish as a secretary?"

"Stop it! You earned this. And anyway, arrangements have all been made. Mr. Pratt's outside waiting."

Gwen smiled. "This is goodbye, then?"

"No," Anna said, her own eyes now welling with tears. "Just see you later."

"See you later, then," Gwen said, stepping toward Anna. The two friends wrapped around each other and stood hugging and sniffling for a few minutes until Mrs. Hughes knocked on the open door.

"Come now, girls. It isn't the end of the world, just a parting."

Gwen wiped her cheeks again and walked to the door.

"Alfred took your bags down, yes?"

Gwen nodded. "Just myself that's left."

"Best get a move on, then."

"Thank you for everything you've done for me Mrs. Hughes."

"You've done it all yourself, Gwen, and you should be very proud." As she spoke, Mrs. Hughes took a small linen handkerchief out of her pocket and handed it to Gwen. Gwen turned it over in her hands and saw that her initials were embroidered on it. "You're going to need it," the housekeeper added with a smile.

Gwen took the small token and, with Mrs. Hughes and Anna on her heels, walked down the stairs to the servants hall. Once there, Gwen saw the whole staff lined up to see her off. The lump in her throat and the pain behind her eyes growing as she said her goodbye to people she had come to see as closer than her own family. At the end of the row was Carson, wearing what could only be described as the proud but melancholy smile of a father sending his first child out into the world.

"I'll walk you out," he said.

Gwen turned for one last look, but the crowd had already begun to disperse. In the life of service, time stopped for a few, but it never stopped for long.

Walking out into the yard, Gwen noticed that Carson was heading toward the front of the house.

"Shouldn't we be going toward the garage, Mr. Carson?" Gwen asked.

"Follow me, please," Carson answered.

As they came around the turn in the path toward the front entrance of Downton Abbey, the motor came into view. Pratt was loading a small trunk that Gwen did not recognize onto the back of the motor and Gwen wondered if she'd be riding into Ripon, where her new job and home awaited, with a guest of the house. But as she turned her eyes from the motor to the door, she saw.

The whole family—including the Dowager Countess, Mrs. Crawley, Mr. Matthew and Mr. Branson—had lined up to see her off.

The sight had stopped her in her tracks, and Carson, seeing that he'd left her several strides behind, turned and gestured for her to approach Robert.

Trying to summon all that was left of her composure, Gwen stepped forward.

"Th-thank you, your lordship," she stammered out, "for the opportunity."

Robert smiled, taking her hand and placing in it a thick envelope. "Your wages, Miss Dawson, and a small gift from the family."

Gwen nodded, unable to speak, tears now flowing freely and unabated. She felt Carson's hand on her shoulder and let him guide her past Cora and Violet to Mary, who was holding a large white box tied with a silver ribbon.

"There are several suits in the trunk you take with you from our wardrobes that Anna adjusted to your measurements," Mary said, Edith and Sybil nodding next to her. "But this," Mary added, lifting the box, "is new."

Carson came around Gwen and took the parcel from Mary and handed it to Pratt who placed it on the front seat of the motor.

"I don't know what to say," Gwen said quietly.

"Say you'll wear it on your first day," Sybil said. Gwen looked at her friend's eyes and saw now that they were as full of tears as her own.

"I will," Gwen said, smiling.

Sybil, knowing that her parents would have thought it inappropriate but not caring, stepped forward and threw her arms around Gwen, who, despite what propriety might have taught _her_ to do, could do nothing but return the hug.

"Dear friend, What shall I do without you?" Sybil said through her sobs.

"Find another creature to rescue."

The two young women laughed as they pulled away. Carson stepped to Gwen again to move her along, and Edith put her arm around Sybil, whose tears were flowing freely.

Gwen next moved to Mrs Crawley, who took her hand in both of hers. "Your room is all arranged with Mrs. Goddard, who will be waiting for you. All of her boarders are young working women like yourself, so you will find some kindred spirits."

"Thank you so much for your help, Mrs. Crawley."

"Keep in touch, dear, and let us know how you are getting on."

Gwen nodded and stepped forward in front of Matthew who was smiling encouragingly, then Tom, who held out his hand.

Gwen shook it and he leaned in and said quietly, "The urge will be strong, but it'll do no good to look back, Miss Dawson."

Gwen nodded again and felt Carson tap her shoulder. He looked down at the row of people one last time, then walked over to the motor. With Pratt's help, she climbed aboard on the front seat and held the parcel with her new suit on her lap, a treasure most dear. She took a deep breath as he went around the front of the motor to the driver's side.

When the car started moving down the driveway toward the gate, Gwen thought about looking back to the house one more time, but heeding Tom's advice, she kept her eyes on the road ahead.

Eventually, as they made their way through the village toward the road to Ripon, Gwen no longer felt preoccupied by what she was leaving behind her and and instead began to anticipate what was ahead. When they arrived at the boarding house where Isobel had arranged for a room for Gwen, the tears had long dried and nothing marked her face but an eager smile.

She stepped off the motor just as Mrs. Goddard came down the front steps of the house.

"Welcome, my dear," Mrs. Goddard said, smiling. "Are you ready for the big adventure?"

**XXX**

**August 1913**

It was Saturday.

The weekend, not a weekday.

Sybil was at her and Tom's secret spot, sitting alone on the bank of the creek, wishing the distinction meant something in her life. For Sybil, Saturday was a day just like any other. Her 18th birthday was a few days away and it, too, she believed, would feel no different. All of her days blurred together now, her life as unchanging and unsatisfying as it had ever felt. More so now that her best friend was gone. Gwen had not moved very far, but figuratively speaking, she was worlds away.

_She would be home from work today_, Sybil thought. _Having a proper rest after a long week. Perhaps going on an interesting outing that she's been looking forward to for several days. _

Sybil sighed and hoped that Gwen was enjoying the new life she had worked so hard for. Sybil didn't want to intrude upon that life, not yet, but she missed Gwen dearly. Far more than Sybil had believed she would.

Sybil had been prepared for not seeing her friend on a daily basis but what she did not anticipate was the emptiness that came from not scouring the papers for secretarial positions, not writing letters on Gwen's behalf, not talking with Gwen about whether or when they would receive a response to an inquiry, not helping Gwen prepare for an upcoming interview. It took Gwen's dream coming true for Sybil to see how intensely she had internalized that dream as her own.

_Your dream is my dream now, and I'll make it come true._

She had told Gwen that once, and she'd meant it with all her heart. But the reality of that dream was for Gwen alone to live out. Sybil was happy for her friend, but she could not help but feel left behind.

Sybil didn't know how long she'd been sitting there, or how many errant tears she'd felt slide down her face, when she heard footsteps behind her. She smiled, without turning around, knowing who it would be. They hadn't made plans to meet on this particular afternoon, but as was true anytime Sybil found herself walking in the direction of the creek, she had hoped they'd both end up here.

Tom sat down beside her, and she leaned into his shoulder with a sigh.

"Still missing Gwen, I take it," he said, placing a soft kiss atop her head.

Sybil nodded, then turned toward him. He leaned in so their heads were touching. "I'm sorry it's been so hard on you."

"Selfish though this may sound, as much as I miss Gwen—and I do—my sadness is made more acute by my sudden lack of purpose."

"There's five other maids at the house," Tom said, jokingly. "Maybe you can help one of them?"

"I think they steer clear of me to avoid that very fate." She sighed, then sitting up so she could look him in the eyes, she added, "I was thinking I might volunteer at the hospital with Isobel."

Tom perked up at this. "Really? I think she would love it!"

Sybil nodded. "I went almost every week with her or granny when everyone was gone to London. I know those two are always fighting about who's in charge, but I'd not get in the middle of that. And I don't imagine that I'll be allowed to do anything really interesting like actual nursing, but I don't know . . . I could fold sheets or something. Mama and papa wouldn't be opposed to that, surely."

"If they put up a fight, I'm sure Aunt Isobel would fight your corner with them. My opinion carries less weight now, but so would I."

Sybil smiled.

"But you could do it, you know," Tom said tentatively. "Be a nurse."

"Don't be silly."

"I'm not. You could go to a training college—there's even a school of medicine for women in London if you wanted to be a doctor. I know you think you don't have the intellect or educational background for serious study, but as I've told you before, cleverness comes from having the will to learn and you've got that in spades."

She rolled her eyes.

"I'm serious, Sybil."

"I know you are, and I treasure your belief in me, but I'll not ask for the moon yet. Not when I don't even know if I can have the stars."

"Come by the house this week, in any case. You can borrow Uncle Reg's old medical texts and see if you really have an interest in it."

"Well, I do find old books comforting. I suppose that reading up on a new subject will help the tedium, if nothing else."

Tom smiled at her, and Sybil leaned in again and whispered, "Do you think we've waited the appropriate time since you arrived to share a kiss?"

Tom brought his arm around her and pulled her into him. "When it comes to you and kisses, I've afraid my thoughts are never what one would call appropriate."

Sybil let out loud laugh, which he silenced with his lips. The kiss began soft and gentle, but eventually deepened and grew passionate. Finding her position a bit uncomfortable, Sybil finally pushed Tom and herself down against the grass, which was warm from the August heat, without breaking their kiss. Tom shifted so he was partially on top of her, allowing Sybil to run her fingers through his thick hair, something she'd discovered that she loved doing. After a few minutes, he pulled back and lay back on the grass next to her. They turned their heads toward each other and smiled at one another.

Since they'd kissed for the first time, Tom was always cognizant of her age and inexperience in matters of love and the line those two things marked that he could not, would not, yet cross. She could sense that he sometimes held himself back, but never remarked upon it. She knew that he was giving her time to ease into this new territory they were exploring together, and she was grateful for it, but she was also eager to push the boundaries and to know what lay beyond.

"Do you think it will always feel like the way it feels now?" she asked quietly.

"I don't know," he answered. "All I know is that I don't want the feeling to ever go away."

Sybil rolled over and placed a light peck on his lips before settling her head against his chest. "Neither do I."

**XXX**

While Sybil and Tom spent time together in the woods by the house, Mary was in the village with her mother and grandmother to see the final preparations for the flower show the following afternoon. The flower show had been one of her favorite events when she was growing up, and to this day, the strong fragrance of roses brought with it happy memories of her childhood.

She'd be in a better mood now if her mother hadn't informed her in the motor on the way over that Sir Anthony Strallan would be joining the family for dinner

_How many times am I to be ordered to marry the man sitting next to me at dinner? _had been Mary's response to the news.

_As many times as it takes,_ had been her mother's response to her.

They hadn't exchanged words since.

Mary supposed her mother would think her petulant, but she was past the point of caring what her mother thought. Mary had been clear to Cora regarding her lack of interest in Anthony, and if Mary was going to be ignored, then she saw no recourse but to repay her mother in kind.

As Mary walked around the village hall, she could hear the voices of Violet and Isobel, not arguing per se, but still at odds over whether the committee would feel inclined to give the Grantham Cup for best bloom to anyone but Violet. Certainly, Mary didn't remember anyone else winning it in her lifetime, but her grandmother wouldn't be convinced it was for any reason other than merit. At dinner the previous evening, Violet had informed the family that Isobel had taken up the cause of old Mr. Moseley, the father of the Crawley House butler. And looking at Mr. Moseley's stall now, Mary couldn't deny the beauty of his work.

_But who would dare suggest that the product of the Dowager House garden was not the very best?_ Mary thought, smiling to herself, finding a bit of silliness in the pride Violet took in work that was not her own, but her gardener's. Mary could only assume that the Downton gardener—which was to say, her mother—would carry the cup someday, but not until Violet was long gone from the world.

Mary stepped closer to Mr. Moseley's stall, where his son was busy helping him.

"Do look at Mr. Molesley's display," Isobel said, seeing Mary approach and apparently undeterred in her allegiance. "He's worked so hard."

"Rather marvellous, aren't they?"

Mary turned and saw Matthew coming up behind her. She hadn't realized he'd arrived, but smiled, happy to see him.

Turning back around, she said, "Lovely. Well done, Mr. Molesley."

"Thank you, milady," he replied

"I think everyone is to be congratulated," Violet said from her spot two stalls away. "Splendid."

Isobel, Matthew and Mary turned to her.

"But do look at these roses," Isobel said. "Have you ever seen the like?"

"My dear Mrs. Crawley continues to insist I'm profiting from an unfair advantage," Violet said to Cora, who had just walked up behind her. Violet was not particularly amused. "She feels, in the past, I've been given the cup merely as a matter of routine rather than merit."

"That's rather ungallant, mother," Matthew said, turning to Isobel. "I'm sure when we see Cousin Violet's roses tomorrow, it'll be hard to think they could be bettered."

"Hard, but not impossible," was Isobel's reply.

"You are quite wonderful the way you see room for improvement wherever you look," Violet said. "I never knew such reforming as you."

Isobel smiled. "I take that as a compliment," she said, turning to move on to another stall.

Violet laughed lightly. "I must've said it wrong."

Mary and Matthew looked at each other and snickered.

"Poor Granny," Mary said, as they ambled by the neighboring stalls together. "She's not used to being challenged."

"Nor is mother," he said with a smile. "I think we should let them settle it between them."

"So, are you interested in flowers?" Mary asked, genuinely curious.

"I'm interested in the village. In fact, I'm on my way to see the cottages that we rebuilt last year. I call on the caretaker every so often to see how the former tenants are getting on."

"You know what all work and no play did for Jack."

"You think I'm a dull boy anyway, don't you? I play, too."

Mary raised her eyebrows playfully and looked at him with an enigmatic smile on her face that caused him to look down a bit bashfully. It happened whenever he would try flirting with her. She would give him a look or smile that completely disarmed him and whatever bravado he'd been able to muster would be gone just like that. Matthew had never been around a woman quite like Mary. Being in her vicinity, he sometimes felt like he was a traveler in a foreign land with no knowledge of the language nor a map to guide him and left to discover only at random whatever treasures that lay ahead. It was a stark contrast to his interaction with Lavinia, with whom he'd always shared an easy and predictable rapport. Matthew was confident that he and Mary were friends now, but she remained a bit of a puzzle to him. The more pieces were revealed, the more complex the puzzle grew, and the more interested Matthew became.

"Tom and I are coming up for dinner tonight," he said after a moment. "I suspect we're there to balance the numbers. Is it in aid of anything?"

Mary sighed. "The eternally fruitless labor of finding me a husband, I'm afraid. But I'm having none of it. I wish I could at least tell you that you might find the company interesting, but it's just a dreary neighbor, that's all."

Matthew narrowed his eyes at her as if trying to decipher something. Perhaps he saw what he was after. Perhaps not. But he took the leap anyway.

"Maybe I'll shine by comparison," he said.

At that moment, Violet walked up to them. "Mary, we're going."

Mary turned to follow her grandmother. She'd not gone four steps, when she turned again and said to him, "Maybe you will."

Matthew himself couldn't see it, but if Tom had been there at that moment, he'd have told Matthew that the smile on his face was brighter than any smile of Matthew's had been in some time.

**XXX**

That evening, Sybil and Edith came into Mary's room to finish getting ready for dinner to make things easier on Anna, who in Gwen's absence had to contend with seeing to all three of them again. Anna had already gone back to the servants hall, and Sybil and Edith were waiting on Mary to finish up.

"Did you hear about granny and Isobel's latest tiff?" Mary asked as she rifled through her jewelry box.

"Oh, dear," Sybil said sitting on Mary's bed, a copy of Austen's Emma open on her lap. "It's not something to do with the hospital again, is it?"

"You know how granny always wins the flower show?" Mary began. "It seems Cousin Isobel thinks it's all a fix."

"Well, isn't it?" Edith said, from the armchair near the window.

"Perhaps," Mary said, picking up a broach and putting it on, "but do _you_ want to have that discussion with granny?"

Edith laughed. "No, I should say not."

"Seems a bit selfish of granny to always expect to be the winner," Sybil said.

"Only a bit?" Mary said, arching her eyebrow. "You must be in a forgiving mood this evening."

"Aren't I always?" Sybil asked playfully.

Mary turned to look at Sybil with a smile. "Far more often than I would be, anyway."

Mary turned back around to look at herself in the mirror, and there was a light knock on the door.

"It's probably, mama," Edith said, standing up. "We should go down before Sir Anthony arrives."

"Come in," Mary called out, then, addressing Edith, added, "What interest could you possibly have in who's coming to dinner?"

"Sir Anthony and I spoke at the garden party," Edith replied, just as their mother was walking into the room. "He was very nice."

"Don't tell me he sparked your interest?" Mary asked, with a laugh.

"What if he did?" Edith asked, chin up.

"Girls, please," Cora said, immediately standing between them. "Sybil, Edith, will you please let your sister and I have a word."

Wordlessly, the two filed out of the room.

Mary turned back to her mirror. "Does this broach work? I can't decide."

"It's charming," Cora said flatly, not bothering to look at it.

Mary rolled her eyes on hearing her mother's tone. "Oh, dear, is it another scolding?"

"Of course not. You're too grown up to scold these days."

"Heavens," Mary said with a mirthless laugh, "then it's really serious."

Ignoring her daughter's comments, Cora said, "I'd like you to look after Sir Anthony Strallan tonight. He's a nice, decent man. His position may not be quite like papa's, but it would still make you a force for good in the county."

"Mama, not again. I spoke with him at the garden party and have told you he doesn't interest me. What more must I do?"

"You must _try_, Mary. That is what you haven't been doing."

Mary straightened and turned to face her mother, in an effort to impress her point. "I turned down Matthew, mama. Is it likely I'd marry Strallan when I wouldn't marry him?"

"I'm glad you've come to think more highly of Cousin Matthew."

"That's not the point," Mary said, turning away exasperated.

"No. The point is that every year your pride gets in the way of a match, the harder it gets to find anyone willing to sit next to_ you_ at dinner, let alone ask for your hand. What do you think will happen when your father is gone? Everything you see around you goes to Matthew and you will be forced to live off the kindness of people who owe you nothing. Is that the life that you want?"

Mary's mind went to the promise Matthew had made her at the garden party. She felt the sincerity of his offer in her heart even now. Perhaps it was just a dream, but it was one she wanted to hold on to.

"Mary—"

"I know you mean to help," Mary cut in. "I know you love me. But I also know what I'm capable of, and forty years of boredom and duty just isn't possible for me. I'm sorry."

"I do love you, and I want to help," Cora said, her voice softening.

"Well, then let me be. Why not concentrate on Edith? She needs all the help she can get."

"You mustn't be unkind to Edith. She has fewer advantages than you."

Mary snorted. "Fewer? She has none at all." Mary moved toward the door. "Mama, I don't want to keep having this conversation. Are we going down or not?"

Cora sighed sadly. "Lead the way."

**XXX**

The conversation at dinner wasn't particularly lively, seeing as the topic was primarily farming and Anthony's efforts to modernize his estate, much in the same way that Tom and Matthew had done for Downton. But the guest of honor seemed to be enjoying himself nonetheless. To Cora's continuing frustration, Mary had done little to engage Anthony, but he didn't seem bothered. Edith had peppered him with questions about new machinery he'd purchased for the running of his farms, showing a surprising knowledge on the subject, which she admitted stemmed from her interest in cars.

"Seems a rare interest for a lady such as yourself and your sisters," Anthony said, though not unkindly.

"Edith is actually crack driver," Tom said. "Though with a bit too heavy a foot."

Anthony turned toward Edith with his eyebrows raised. "Impressive," he said, quietly. "I don't think I'd have guessed."

Edith's cheeks blushed ever so slightly. "It's just something I like to do."

"Me as well," Anthony said.

After he spoke, there was a lull in the conversation for several moments, and he looked down to his food, a bit embarrassed and wondering if he'd said the wrong thing. In the silence, Anthony heard the voice of his sister in his head reminding him of the young lady he was here to court. He turned toward Mary, who'd barely said two words to him all night, preferring instead to converse with her cousin—the man Anthony now knew to be her father's heir—sitting on the other side of her. He looked up again at Edith, across from him, but she was looking down now too, with a look on her face that suggested she also believed she'd done the wrong thing by speaking to him.

Cora was about to ask Anthony another question, but Sybil beat her to the punch.

"I wonder Sir Anthony, since you talk of modernization, Matthew and Tom have also made changes in support of the tenants so that they may be their own masters and own their own land in the future. Will you be making such changes?"

"Don't be impertinent, Sybil," her mother said, "Sir Anthony, you are under no obligation to discuss your private business affairs to that degree."

"The machinery may be Edith's interest, but the people are mine," Sybil said.

"We know where you'll have learned that," Robert said pointedly, looking askance as the end of the table where she and Tom were sitting next to one another.

"In the library, of course," Sybil said, in a sweet tone that all at the table save Anthony understood to be sarcastic. "It's the only place I learn anything."

"Please don't concern yourself, Lady Grantham," Anthony said. "There's no harm in the question. To answer you, Lady Sybil, I'd say that the tenants may help themselves by learning to incorporate these new machines into their daily work. The skills will prove long useful. There's no doubt about it. The next few years in farming are going to be about mechanisation. That's the test, and we're going to have to meet it. Don't you agree, Lady Mary?

"Yes, of course, Sir Anthony. I'm sure I do," Mary said, turning back to Matthew after she'd spoken and rolling her eyes as if to communicate her boredom. Matthew's shoulders shook a bit as he tried to keep in his laughter. He knew it was wrong to encourage her cavalier behavior, but he'd found that the less Mary was concerned with what was expected of her the more he liked her.

"Sir Anthony," Edith spoke up again. "It must be so hard to meet the challenge of the future and yet be fair to your employees."

"That is the point precisely," he replied. "We can't fight progress, but we must find ways to soften the blow."

Edith glanced briefly at her mother, then said, "I should love to see one of the new harvesters, if you would ever let me."

"I should be delighted," Anthony answered quickly, a light coming alive in his eyes that warmed Edith's heart.

She knew that he'd been invited for Mary, but she'd been taken by his attention and interest in her questions and found herself wanting more of it. Despite a keenly romantic nature, aside for Patrick, Edith was not one for flights of fancy when it came to the opposite sex. She had not been on the receiving end of a great deal of flattery, the practice of which felt false to her anyway. Anthony might have told her she was the most beautiful woman in the world, but it would mean more that he listened to her and looked at her in way that suggested it was his choice to do so, not his duty. And despite his intentions regarding Mary that was precisely what he'd done with Edith all through dinner.


	34. Chapter 34

_All right, here is part two of dinner. A lot happens in this chapter, and a lot happens all at once. I hope that I've made the sequence of events clear, but if anything is hard to follow, please let me know. _

_Lots of confrontations and drama. Hope you enjoy it! Please, please let me know what you think! _

* * *

"Hmmmm."

Mary raised her eyebrows at the sounds Anthony was making while eating—and obviously enjoying—his pudding.

"Truly delicious!"

"You don't say," Mary said to Matthew in a low voice.

"Well, in his defense, it _is_ very good," Matthew answered quietly.

"You're supposed to be on_ my_ side," Mary whispered back, barely able to keep the laughter out of her voice.

"This is a truly divine pudding, Lady Grantham," Anthony said. "Please give my compliments to the cook."

Cora smiled. "Carson, please let Mrs. Patmore know that her Apple Charlotte was delightful."

"She'll be pleased to hear it, milady," Carson answered.

Cora looked back to Anthony. "I shouldn't give her all the credit, though, Sir Anthony. Your sister was the one who sent us the recipe. She said it was a favorite of yours."

"Indeed, Lady Grantham," Anthony responded warmly. "Delilah is very good to look out for me as she does. The job is mine as elder brother to look after _her_, but such has been our lot from the start."

"How wonderful to have such a _caring _sister," Edith said, her particular emphasis on the word 'caring' not lost on Mary.

"I quite agree. How nice to have someone who cares instead of _covets_," was Mary's answer, delivered with a smile that could cut glass.

"Well, gentlemen," Cora cut in before the tension between her daughters became apparent to the family's guest. "There was so much talk of business at dinner, I dare say I don't know what you'll be discussing when we've gone."

"I'm sure we'll think of something," Robert said, smiling.

"Milady," Carson said, signaling that he was ready to lead the women through the hall to parlor.

"Thank you, Carson," Cora said standing. Violet, Mary, Edith and Sybil likewise stood and followed. Tom, as had become his custom, did as well, feeling Robert's eyes on him as he walked out of the room. Instead of following the women down the hall into the parlor, however, Tom turned left toward the entrance hall to the library, where he picked up a volume on British trade with the Far East and waited for Sybil eventually to join him.

Sure enough, only after a few minutes had passed, he heard footsteps and stood from where he'd sat on the sofa and turned toward the door.

But it wasn't Sybil.

"I'm sorry," Edith said, a bit taken by surprise. "I didn't know anyone was here."

She watched Tom. The expression on his face suggested he'd been expecting someone, but he quickly collected himself and approached her with an easy smile.

"Not to worry. You surprised me, but I was just reading." He lifted the book as if to offer proof.

Edith looked down at her hands and fidgeted for a moment. She hadn't counted on anyone being here, and now wasn't sure what to do or say.

"Can I help you with something?" Tom asked, seeing hesitation in her stance.

"Well, it's just . . . I, um. I came to look for a book."

"Oh, don't let me stop you," Tom answered, gesturing with his hand for her to come all the way into the room.

"No, I mean—not a specific book . . . at least. I'm not sure what to look for."

"Do you have a subject?"

Edith looked down again, and Tom noticed a bit of a blush coming over her cheeks. "Agrarian economics."

Tom was momentarily surprised, but then he thought back to the conversation at dinner, and it became clear. She wanted to find a book to show Anthony. Tom smiled widely. "Would you like me to suggest something?"

Edith looked up again with a smile of relief on her face. "Oh, would you? I don't know nearly so much as you might. Something very interesting to grab his attention, but no so interesting that he'll shove me aside and start reading on the spot."

Tom laughed at her enthusiasm. "Let's have a look, shall we?" He guided her over to the appropriate shelves and started perusing. "Matthew has added to Robert's books on the subject since we've been here, so there's quite a bit to choose from."

He pulled a thin book off the shelf. "How about this: It's Henry Charles Taylor. He's American and exceedingly intelligent. He was at the London School of Economics for a spell so he knows farming in this country."

Edith took the book and looked at the title. "The Decline of Landowning Farmers in England."

She looked back at Tom with her brow furrowed. "Doesn't sound promising."

"It's mostly a history, but quite vivid in detail. Though, I suppose it's not very kind to your intended audience," Tom said taking back the book and slipping it back into the shelf.

"You're always trying to sneak your ideas into things," Edith said playfully.

"Sometimes it's the only way to convince someone of something," he said, perusing the titles once again.

"But if you don't tell them outright what you'd like for them to understand, they won't know to credit you for changing their mind, will they."

Tom smirked. "Fair point . . . here we are. Agricultural Mechanization and Its Advantages: 1850-1900."

Edith beamed. "Right on the money! Do you think they'll have passed through by now?"

Tom turned to look at the clock. "Not quite yet, so you'll have time to familiarize yourself with it."

Edith hugged the book to herself and smiled. "Thank you."

"Good luck," Tom said with a wink, and Edith turned to go.

Tom returned the book he'd taken to read to its shelf and intended to head to the parlor when he heard someone else come in. This time, it _was _Sybil.

"What did Edith want?" Sybil asked coming over to him.

"Didn't you ask her?"

"Oh no, I hid. I didn't want her to see me coming in to see you."

Tom grinned as Sybil wrapped her arms around him and stood up on her toes to kiss him. Tom welcomed her advance eagerly. They kissed for several minutes. Tom pulled her closer and closer into himself, and Sybil responded to the passion she felt in his embrace with quiet gasps and moans. She loved kissing him. After the first time, Sybil assumed that the more she did it, the more mundane and ordinary it would become, but that had hardly been the case. In some ways, kissing felt like taking long gulps of a deliciously intoxicating drink that, rather than quenching your thirst or appetite, only left you wanting more.

The feeling was not much different for him. But on this night, something about seeing Edith's interest in someone that Tom was sure would meet the approval of Robert and Cora—and something about Edith calling Tom "sneaky"—had given him pause, and when he pulled away, Sybil noticed.

"Is everything all right?" She asked, her hands still holding on to his shoulders.

"Do you feel as if we're doing something wrong? By not telling anyone that we're . . ."

"In love?"

Tom grinned at the words, and she grinned back. They had not yet specifically spoken the words "I love you," but the sentiment had been implied and hinted at in every other possible way. And that had been enough for them both, underscoring the connection that had existed between them almost from the start as well as the way their friendship had grown beyond the normal boundaries of aristocratic expectation.

"Yes," he said, in agreement. "Do you?"

Sybil's smile softened. "I'll admit that I don't like deceit, but I don't believe that we're deceiving anyone . . . exactly. We're working within our circumstances. You and papa aren't speaking at the moment, but I know his anger will pass. When it does, and when June comes next year, it'll be better and we'll tell them our plans. In the meantime, there's nothing wrong with enjoying one another's company. Surely, I can't be expected to keep my hands to myself now that I know what the opposite is like."

Tom laughed softly. "I see I've created a monster."

"No. The monster was always inside. You just woke her up." Sybil looked at him for a long moment. "I wish I could believe I've made you feel better, but I'm not sure I have."

Tom stepped away from her embrace, but caught her hands in his and led her to sit down on the sofa. "Since I told the family about my mam, I've been trying to keep quiet whenever I'm here. At dinner or when we're here for tea or I'm in the library looking over the books with Matthew, Robert will say something that I think invites comment, but I'll hold back afraid to stir the waters any more than I already have."

"That isn't like you," Sybil said quietly.

"Not at all," he said with a mirthless laugh. "And I fear it's starting to wear on me. I don't want to make things more difficult for you or us with your parents—more so than I am sure they will already be—but I don't want our future happiness to come at the expense of who I am."

"Do you believe that's what _I_ want?!"

"No! At least . . . I rather hope not."

"Tom, perhaps I've not had an opportunity to make it clear before, but this life of false veneers and politeness and manners, it's _not_ the life I want. I don't want to make trouble for my parents, but I won't have them tell me what to do and certainly not who I shall marry. If they disapprove then, so be it, but please don't _acquiesce_ on my account. I want them to know you as you as the stubborn socialist you are . . as the person I love—even if that means they don't like you very much."

Tom let out a deep breath that he felt he'd been holding in for the past month and pulled her into his arms once again, falling in love with her and her rebellious spirit, all over again. He pulled back slightly and cradled her face in his hands.

"Oh my darling, please never doubt of how wholeheartedly I love you."

Sybil answered him with a kiss. "I'm sorry this has been troubling you," she said. "I wish we'd spoked on it sooner."

"Since I kissed you the first time, when we're alone neither of us has been inclined to do much talking."

Sybil snickered. "I won't complain about that."

"We should go back," Tom said with a soft smile.

"Why?" Sybil asked playfully. "You don't want them to_ worry_?"

"No, I don't want to feel like I'm avoiding them anymore."

Sybil smiled and stood. "May I ask what brought all this on? Obviously, this has been bothering you for sometime, but did something happen tonight?"

"I believe Edith has feelings for Sir Anthony," Tom said standing.

"Really!" Sybil exclaimed as the two headed out of the room toward the other end of the house. "He does seem like a nice man. Not at all suited for Mary, but it's not too much of a surprise that Edith has taken a shining to him. What does that have to do with you?"

"She asked me to pick out a book that would spark his interest, and in the process told me not to be so sneaky."

"I suppose that's good advice, but I do so like sneaking around with you."

Tom laughed. "My assumption has always been that I would be a bad influence on you, but I rather think it is the other way around."

**XXX**

After Edith had left Tom in the library, she'd headed back to the parlor, meeting Matthew on her way there. He'd declined a cigar this evening, so left Robert and Anthony to finish theirs after he'd drunk the last of his brandy. A part of him was inclined to spend as much of this night as he could with Mary, feeling as if there'd been something of a breakthrough between them since their moment in the village hall earlier in the day.

_Maybe I'll shine by comparison._

_Maybe you will._

It was the most either of them had acknowledged about any possible feelings between them beyond the existing bonds of distant kinship. He didn't know where it would lead, but he was nonetheless eager for the journey.

Seeing Edith smiling as he approached, Matthew thought of her warning ages ago that he'd eventually fall in love with Mary. At the time, he thought Edith was teasing him, but in the many months since Edith had made that proclamation, Matthew had been privy to her keen powers of observation. She was a quick judge of character and thoughtful in the way people who often find themselves alone in crowded rooms often are.

"Hello," Matthew said approaching her. "What have you go there?"

Edith looked down at the book she was still hugging to her chest. "Something that Tom picked out for me."

"May I?" Matthew asked extending his hand to see the book.

Edith pursed her lips but handed it over. "Please don't laugh."

But on seeing the title, Matthew didn't laugh and only offered a sympathetic smile. "So you like him very much then?"

"What makes you say that?" Edith asked taking the book back.

"It's an exceedingly tedious topic. I can only imagine your interest stems from the joy the conversation might bring, and not the subject itself."

Edith looked down bashfully. "I know I'll have a scolding from mama since he's here for Mary, but I dare say he likes me more . . . hard as that may be for everyone to believe."

"I believe it."

"Really? I mean, you think he might fancy _me_?"

"Well, I do not know him well, and I'm hardly the best judge of such things, but he seemed more taken by your efforts at conversation than hers."

"She wasn't really trying."

"In this case, I think the extent of her effort is less important than the result, which was clearly in your favor. Perhaps you should ask him to take a drive with you."

Edith rolled her eyes. "Now, you're just having fun with me."

Matthew laughed and offered his arm, so they could walk into the parlor together. Matthew saw that Isobel and Violet were talking, and leaning into Edith, he said, "Given how things are bound to go at the flower show tomorrow I best serve as intermediary between those two before it comes to blows."

Edith laughed as she watched him go.

"I suppose you're quite pleased with yourself."

She turned and saw Mary next to her. Edith hadn't seen the look on her sister's face when Edith walked into the room on Matthew's arm. (Indeed, only one person had. Isobel happened to turn at just the right moment, and she wondered whether Mary, with all her airs, had somehow grown fond of the man she had once dismissed as beneath her. Isobel would not mention it to Matthew. She knew complications between them would be aplenty, even without her meddling.)

Mary never fancied herself in love with anyone, and she wasn't precisely sure that's what she was feeling now. But it wasn't anger or annoyance that she felt when she saw Edith and Matthew. It was sadness, a feeling that signaled to her that while she could convince herself to accept a life without a husband, she did not want to accept a life in which he was not also single. And certainly not one in which he was married to her sister. At this point, having spurned the idea before, Mary could not believe a marriage between herself and Matthew might still be possible. Still, she could hope the he might also choose not to marry—the future of the earldom be damned.

But the sting of jealousy was strong, especially after a dinner during which she'd enjoyed his company so much. So when he stepped away from Edith, the lesser angels in Mary's nature, those for whom Edith presented such an easy target, sharpened their arrows once again.

"What do you mean?" Edith asked defensively, setting the book down on the table next to her.

"Talk of tractors really stirs the senses. Who knew _you_ could be capable of such flirting?"

Edith set her jaw, not wanting to let Mary spoil her evening.

Mary was about say something else, when Cora came up behind her.

"You were very helpful, Edith, looking after Sir Anthony. You saved the day."

Edith smiled again, proud that she'd made a positive impression on her mother. "I enjoyed it. We seem to have a lot to talk about."

"I'm glad he made a good impression, my darling," Cora said, before moving on, having seen Robert come into the room and walking over to him.

Mary rolled her eyes and, when Cora was out of earshot, added, "Spare me your boasting, please."

"Now who's jealous?"

"Jealous? Do you think I couldn't have that old booby if I wanted him?"

"Even you can't take every prize."

"Is that a challenge?" Mary asked with a smirk.

"If you like," Edith answered, hoping she sounded more confident than she felt just then.

As it happened, the sisters didn't have long to wait to see which way Anthony's inclinations could be pulled more easily, for just after Robert had come into the parlor, Tom and Sybil returned, and just after them, Anthony entered, only moments after Edith had spoken.

When Robert had come in, he'd spoken briefly to Cora, then walked over to Matthew. Robert had noticed how much closer Matthew and Mary had seemed lately and wondered whether it was too late to hope that there might still be a match between them and that Mary might end up as countess after all.

Seeing Robert approach, Matthew smiled.

"I hope dinner was to your liking," Robert said.

"Since you sent her to the surgeon in London, Mrs. Patmore's cooking has certainly taken quite a turn for the better."

Robert smiled. "In retrospect it's a wonder that it took so long to spot the problem."

Robert took a sip of his drink and added, "I'm glad you and Mary are getting along. There's no reason you can't be friends."

Matthew smiled. "No reason at all."

Robert looked at Matthew and asked carefully, "I don't suppose there's any chance that you could sort of . . . start again?"

"Life is full of surprises."

After he spoke, Matthew turned to look at Mary again. That was the moment Anthony had walked in.

If Mary had noticed Matthew looking at her and looked back at him, she'd have seen something in his eyes that would have made her forget the jealousy she felt when he'd walked into the room with Edith. Indeed, she'd have realized she had no reason to be jealous. If that had been the case, things might have unfolded much more easily between Matthew and Mary.

But she didn't catch his eyes.

Instead, her eyes were on the door through which Sir Anthony Strallan had just walked.

And for no reason other than to prove herself right, in a fit of jealousy that was entirely unfounded, Mary called Anthony over. "Ah, I've been waiting for you," she said, picking up the book that Edith had brought in from the table on which Edith had left it. "I found a book over here, and I think it's just the thing to catch your interest."

Anthony smiled, surprised. "I'm intrigued. What is it to be?"

"Well, I was looking in the library and . . ." She trailed off, not needing to continue seeing how deeply buried in the book Anthony already was. She turned to smile serenely at Edith, by whom Anthony had walked without so much as a glance.

Feeling her resolve waver, Edith spoke quietly, addressing Anthony, "I was very taken by what you were saying over dinner about—"

"You're right, Lady Mary," Anthony said, not realizing what he'd stepped in the middle of. "How clever you are. This is exactly what we have to be aware of."

Given the disinterest Mary had made apparent at dinner, Anthony was shocked that she'd handed him a book so specifically addressing his interests, and he wondered whether her aloofness was merely a way of being coy with him that he misunderstood. That it was Edith who had sought the book out for him was not something Anthony could have known. And not hearing Edith when she'd spoken was a testament to his interest in the very subject she was most interested in talking to him about.

Anthony was not a malicious man, and did not willfully ignore Edith the way many men had before. But all Edith could see was another man looking to the brightest rose in the room, walking past the less obviously beautiful lily.

"There's a section just here that I was rather unsure about," Mary continued. "I wonder if you could tell me . . ."

Matthew saw it all, and it sickened him.

He excused himself to Robert and, as conspicuously as he could, walked past Anthony and Mary to Edith.

Assuming Matthew saw her rebuffed and was trying to make her feel better, Edith said more quietly, "It seems we've both been thrown over for a bigger prize."

But Matthew ignored what she'd said and instead declared, rather loudly, a desire to walk with her to the library so they could speak alone.

Edith looked at him a bit puzzled.

"Do you remember what I told you once about men and competition?" He asked in a whisper.

"Ye-es."

"Then play along."

Edith moved slightly to look over Matthew's shoulder to Anthony and Mary, both of whom had turned to watch herself and Matthew. She gave Matthew a small smile and took his arm. All eyes were on them as they left the room.

They didn't speak until they were in the entrance hall, where Matthew stopped them.

"So what do we do now?" Edith asked with a giggle.

"I'm not sure. Perhaps you should proceed to the library and find a book. Go back to the parlor and sit in a corner as if to read alone. My guess is that he'll come to you."

Edith dropped his arm and started fidgeting with her fingers nervously. "How can you be sure?"

"Well, we can't ever be sure of anything when it comes to the pursuit of love."

"Those aren't very encouraging words."

"Yes, they are," Matthew said kindly. "Love is what you're after, isn't it? It'll never be yours if you don't fight."

Edith smiled and turned to go, but stopped for a moment. "What about you?"

"I'm going home."

"You need not be jealous, you know," Edith said quietly. "She was just trying to prove a point."

"I'm not jealous, Edith. I'm disappointed."

"Well, then give her time. It takes her longer than anyone else."

"What does?"

"Admitting she's been wrong."

Matthew smiled sadly but with a slight bow turned and left.

**XXX**

In the parlor, Tom and Sybil had not been standing next to one another in the moment when Matthew and Edith left the room and had not seen what transpired between Edith, Mary and Anthony. So they were both puzzled by Matthew's behavior—and Edith's, considering how convinced Tom had been of her interest in Anthony and how sure Sybil was that Edith no longer saw Matthew in a romantic way.

Tom and Sybil looked at one another for explanation, but both shrugged, at a loss to what was going on. They'd have been amused to know that their exchange of glances was much the same as the one that happened between Robert and Cora.

After a minute or so, everyone went back to their conversations.

Everyone except Anthony and Mary.

Edith's departure made Anthony suddenly and painfully aware of the fact that he'd ignored Edith's presence just moments ago. He felt a deep pang of regret, realizing that his enjoyment of the evening up until that point had been a result of her attentions and no one else's. He turned to Mary to excuse himself. Continuing to talk with her no longer felt right or appropriate. But she was still staring at the door through which Matthew and Edith had exited.

"My apologies, Lady Mary—"

But Mary was not listening. So she cut in, "Excuse me, Sir Anthony," and quickly walked out of the room.

This did not escape Robert's notice. He took a long drink of his scotch and said quietly to Cora, "Mary can be such a child."

"What do you mean, darling?"

"She thinks, if you put a toy down, it will still be sitting there when you want to play with it again."

"What are you talking about?"

He looked at Cora and smiled. "Never mind."

Cora sighed, not sure what was in Robert's mind. But though she missed Mary's dramatic exit, she didn't miss Edith's return shortly after, nor did she miss the way Anthony followed Edith to the corner of the room where she'd sat down.

They didn't speak long. Edith accepted Anthony's apology, though she insisted she'd not felt slighted by him. He thanked her for the stimulating conversation at dinner. She smiled and looked back down to her book, which he took as a sign that she didn't want to be disturbed further. The truth was though that she'd been so surprised that he sought her out—as Matthew had predicted—that she was afraid of saying more and upsetting the balance again. Anthony missed Edith looking back at him with a happy hopeful smile as he walked to join Robert at the hearth, but even so Anthony knew that this wasn't the end of things with her and he was grateful for that.

Meanwhile, after she'd left the room, Mary had walked right past Edith in the hall but barely noticed. When she got to the entrance hall, Alfred had just come back in.

"Has Mr. Crawley left?" She asked anxiously.

"Yes, milady."

"But what about the car? Pratt can't have brought it 'round so quickly."

"Well, he said he'd rather walk, milady."

"Thank you."

Alfred pointed to a window and Mary watched for a moment as Matthew walked across the front drive toward the gate and the village. Then, suddenly and impulsively, she ran to the door, opened it herself and ran after him, determined to know his mind once and for all.

"Matthew!"

He kept walking.

"MATTHEW!"

He turned abruptly, which startled Mary. "What was that back there?" he asked angrily.

"What?"

"You and Anthony Strallan."

Mary smiled a bit relieved. "That?! Matthew that was nothing. That was—"

"That was you trying to prove yourself capable of attracting a man you don't want."

Mary stopped short at the severity of his tone.

Matthew continued. "Trying to prove that you are more beautiful than Edith, a fact of which I can assure you she is entirely aware because it's been thrown in her face her entire life."

Mary was taken aback. This was not what she'd expected to hear.

Matthew sighed, his shoulders drooping. "You have no interest in Sir Anthony, but you have to know Edith does. You took his attention away for no reason but to spite her. And I'm forced to wonder why you would choose to make an enemy out of someone in a world in which women like you already have so much with which to contend."

Mary tried in vain to keep her tears in check, but she could feel them spill over onto her cheeks as she spoke. "And you think she's innocent in all this, do you?"

"I assume she's not, but I know a kind word from you would end the enmity between you. I think you know that too, and yet you refuse to give it. Why?"

Mary turned away and quickly wiped her cheeks. "Why should I tell you anything? What could you possibly understand about what it's like to stand in those rooms year after year, be told over and over that the world is at your feet, that everything begins and ends with you when the fact is you're just like all the others."

She turned to face him again. "There's no difference between her and me, not really, except that I was taught high regard and high expectation. So much greater is my disappointment. And now I've wrecked it all over again and you have seen me as I am, an embittered and jealous woman doomed to spinsterhood by her own vanity."

Matthew stepped closer to Mary, who was taken aback once again but even so didn't move from her spot.

He spoke quietly, looking at his feet. "I don't think you embittered Mary, only misguided. You certainly have no reason for jealousy, at least as far as I am concerned. And well . . . perhaps it is foolishness, but I've not given up the idea that we may yet give your father the marriage that he wants between us. Only for that to come to pass I must know the real you, and I know you at least well enough to understand that you've not let her out yet, not in my presence. Certainly, that was not the real you tonight."

Matthew looked up into her liquid eyes and unable to stop himself leaned over and placed a soft peck on her cheek.

"Good night " he said quietly, then turned and left.

Mary watched him until he was out of sight, and eventually, Alfred came outside and asked her if she needed anything. She shook her head and proceeded upstairs to her room.

It wasn't too long after that the party broke up.

Outside, waiting for Pratt, Isobel and Tom were surprised to learn from Alfred that Matthew had opted to walk home, which again prompted Tom and Sybil to exchange glances, given that Mary also seemed to have retired early.

Anthony said his goodbyes to everyone in the family and thanked Robert for the invigorating conversation. "You and the young men gave me a lot to think about as we move our estate forward."

"Feel free to ignore the more radical notions," Robert said. "We're still waiting to see whether they work here."

"They are working, Sir Anthony," Tom piped in, standing behind Robert. "Robert's skepticism regarding the benefits of allowing those who work the land a larger share of the bounty we reap from it does not affect that fact, only his willingness to accept it."

"Nevermind Tom," Robert said with a roll of his eyes. "He's our tame revolutionary."

Anthony sensed a tension between the two and didn't want to say something out of turn, so he offered, as playfully as he could, "Every family must have one."

"What Robert mistakes for tameness is merely a willingness to pick my fights wisely."

Tom stepped forward to shake the hand of Anthony, who was a bit surprised at seeing a young man address Robert so familiarly and challenge him so directly. "It was nice talking with you, Sir Anthony. I hope we see more of you."

Anthony nodded and moved to shake Robert's hand. "It was a marvelous dinner. Thank you, Lord Grantham."

Robert smiled. After Anthony boarded his car, Robert looked to Tom. "So that's how it's going to be then, you insulting me in front of my guests."

Tom laughed, infuriating Robert all the more. "I did no such thing. I merely spoke up in contradiction of what you said, which I happen to know to be false. I've been quiet this month in deference to our . . . disagreement regarding what I revealed—"

"_How_ you revealed it," Robert cut in.

"Fine. But anyway, I'm done with that. I'm afraid I can't turn into somebody else just to please you, and I'm not sorry for that. You are either willing to accept me and welcome me into your house as I am or not at all. If the later, say the word now, and this will be the last time I'll be here before Matthew's in your place. No harm done. It is your home, after all."

Tom waited for Robert to say something, but was met with only silence.

"All right, then," Tom said, more quietly. He took a deep breath, then said, "We're going to be in each other's lives for some time. So long as Matthew is your heir, I'll be here to help him and I'll do so according to what I think is right."

"Even if it means burning the place down?"

Tom laughed. "Don't you think if that were my end, I'd have already done it?"

"What is your end, Tom?" Robert asked, genuine curiosity in his face.

Tom thought for a moment.

_I want to marry your daughter. And I don't want you to hate her for it._

"I'd like for you to trust me."

"Is that all?"

"It's plenty. Does it surprise you?"

Robert was no longer angry, but still a bit closed off from what Tom could tell. "Life is full of surprises," Robert said.

Pratt came around then, and Tom and Isobel boarded the motor for home.

"Are things on the mend with you and Robert?" Isobel asked once they were on their way.

"I don't know," Tom answered. "I feel better about where they are in any case."

**XXX**

After she went to bed, Mary rang for Anna, who could see that her charge had been shaken up by something, but helped her out of her dress and into her night clothes without comment, which Mary appreciated.

Later, as she was getting into bed, Mary noticed the copy of Emma that Sybil had left on her night table and, wanting to get out of her head before she tried to sleep, walked over to her youngest sister's room to return it to her.

Sybil was at her desk writing in her journal when she heard Mary's knock.

"Come in," she called out.

Mary entered. "You left this in my room," she said, walking over to the bed and sitting down, setting the book down next to her.

Sybil smiled and came over to sit next to Mary, picking up the book and leafing through it absentmindedly. "I've read it so many times, I don't even need the book anymore, really. I can recite the whole thing in my head."

Mary smiled. "I must admit, that one was never my favorite of Austen's work."

"Oh?"

"Mr. Knightley is rather insufferable, I think, scolding Emma as he does when all she's trying to do is help the people around her find love and enjoy herself. She's misguided about love, sure, but everyone likes her. There's no real harm in anything she does, and all he can do is find fault in it."

Sybil smiled. "Everyone likes Emma because nobody really knows her, _except_ Mr. Knightley, and given _that,_ he is honest with her in a way that no one else can be. He doesn't find fault in her exactly, but in the manner in which her vanity—puffed up by Frank Churchill—suppresses her true, kinder instincts. He might have told her in a gentler way, but he was also acting out of jealousy."

"Except Emma was never in love with Frank Churchill."

"No, but he was invited to Highbury for the purpose of courting her—at least, that was true as far as Mr. Knightley knew. He can hardly be blamed for speaking forcefully in the hope his message and plea got through past Frank's false flattery."

Mary smiled. "Who knew Mr. Knightley had such a champion as you."

Sybil shrugged slightly. "I've always liked the fact that he wasn't so snobbish as your precious Mr. Darcy."

"Mr. Darcy was honest with Elizabeth about what was expected of him and about what she herself knew to be true: His position was much higher than hers. The fact that his love doesn't waver in spite of all of that and in spite of his own efforts to convince himself not to love her is the mark of true romance, if you ask me."

"So you aren't entirely opposed to a cross-class marriage," Sybil said quietly.

Mary looked to the window but did not respond.

Sybil smiled watching her sister and added more teasingly, "I think you love Mr. Darcy only because you wish you could be mistress of Pemberly."

Mary looked back at Sybil. "There's that too."

Both of them giggled.

"What about you?" Mary asked.

"Me?"

"Is Wentworth still your absolute favorite?" Mary asked with an arched eyebrow and a knowing smile.

"He is. Though, unlike Anne Elliot, I will not be talked out of my feelings."

"I pity the fool who tries it."

Sybil laughed.

"Well, I'll leave you alone," Mary said, standing.

"Mary, why did you come up so early?" Sybil asked, also standing. "Mama thought perhaps you weren't feeling well."

A rueful smile came across Mary's face. "As it happened to our dear Miss Woodhouse, my vanity took a blow tonight, but after some thought, I think I am better for it."

"Was it because of Sir Anthony? His preferring Edith?"

"Goodness, no! Just a series of unfortunate events, most of them made so by me."

"And you're all right?"

Mary sighed. "I will be." She paused, then sitting back down on the bed asked, "Do you think Edith could be happy with someone so . . ."

"Old?"

Mary smiled. "Mature."

Sybil giggled, sitting down next to her sister again. "I shouldn't laugh. He's wonderfully kind."

"And I suppose the handsomeness of his youth hasn't left him entirely. His sister, I'm sure would prove a meddlesome nightmare, but he'd likely make a good husband."

"Just not for you."

"Not for me," Mary said with a sigh. "But would Edith really take him?"

Sybil thought for a long moment. "Edith deserves to be happy as much as anyone. I think he'd make a conscientious effort to make her so. All she wishes for is someone who will listen and try to understand who she is and delight in it."

"Isn't that what we all want?"

"I suppose so."

Mary looked down for a moment. "Have I ruined her life?"

Sybil smiled momentarily, but her expression changed as she saw in her sister's eyes that she was not making a joke, but rather asking a sincere question.

"You've taught her to be strong and to have thick skin, even if the lesson was sometimes a bit too harshly applied."

"You're sweet, but far too forgiving."

"I have a soft spot for my _both_ of my sisters. . . . But I do believe you've done no wrong that can't be mended. She's forgiving too you know."

"It's just me who carries grudges, then?"

"Including against yourself."

Mary looked at Sybil and smiled, then stood to leave again. "I wasn't thrilled when you were born, you know? But I am happy to say that I was wrong on that score."

"The more you admit you don't know everything, the more quickly you'll realize how freeing it is to do so."

Mary narrowed her eyes playfully at Sybil. "How did you get to be so wise?"

"I was blessed with good sisters."

**XXX**

The following afternoon, the entire village was gathered for the flower show, and just about everyone cheered when Violet called out Mr. William Moseley's Comtesse Cabarrus rose as the 1913 winner of the Grantham Cup, instead of her own entry.

The family all smiled knowingly, understanding what it took to for Violet to concede such a prize.

The Crawley sisters stood together, Sybil in the middle, arms linked. They'd chosen to walk to the village together, instead of taking a ride with Pratt. Nothing had been said between Edith and Mary of the events the night before, but that was just as well. This was a new day, as exemplified by Violet's changing attitude regarding what was given to her and what she had earned.

"Now, see," Sybil said as all three watched Tom, Matthew and Isobel eagerly congratulate their butler and his father. "If granny can learn a lesson at her age, anything is possible."

"I'll admit I never thought I'd see the day," Mary said. "Though you'll never hear granny admit it."

"What need is there of an admission?" Edith asked. "Mr. Moseley is happy either way, having won what he wanted."

Sybil laughed softly. "Would that achieving happiness were really so simple as a garden rose."


	35. Chapter 35

_Thank you, as always, to those reviewing/following/favoriting! There have been a number of new followers—about a dozen—in the last few weeks. Not sure why the sudden surge, but I'm grateful for all of you and hope the story continues to entertain. _

_This chapter jumps ahead about a month and brings us to September and the re-launch of the cricket match in the village. The match itself is still to come, since this chapter grew longer than I originally intended (funny how that always seems to happen). Along with the set up for that, we peek in on Sybil volunteering with Isobel at the hospital. Those wondering about the fallout of Edith/Anthony and Mary/Matthew, that will come in the next few chapters. This one is more focused on Sybil and her growing ambitions. Lastly, the Drake storyline from the second episode of series one pops up here with some of the show's dialogue incorporated and adjusted for the change in timeline. You'll perhaps understand why I decided to put it here, when you get to the end of the chapter. _

_As always, I welcome all of your comments and criticism. Enjoy!_

* * *

**September 1913**

The warmth and brightness of summer began to give way to autumn just weeks after the village flower show. The early morning chill took longer to dissipate, and as the peak of harvesting season neared, the estate's farms were working at full tilt. The productivity was helped along by the festive atmosphere that the flower show had sparked and that lingered in the air long after. The hopeful air around town reminded Robert of the days of his youth, when he believed the strength of his father's character alone was what held his domain aloft. He knew better now. At least, he knew that it took more than just the will of Lord Alistair Crawley—and more than just his money. What it was exactly that was happening now, Robert wasn't so sure, but the question was no longer his to answer. All that was left for him to do was to acknowledge the wisdom of God for bringing Matthew home to Downton.

That and assemble his cricket team.

Other than the visits to Scotland that he'd chosen to give up, the annual fall match that pitted the family versus residents of the village was the event that Robert had most looked forward to before their lives had changed so drastically and the one he'd most missed in the time the family had been away. When the calendar had turned to September, Dr. Richard Clarkson, the doctor who ran the hospital and one of the past organizers of the village team, had approached Robert to ask if the family would be taking up the tradition again after the two year hiatus. Robert was pleased to know that the village players were as eager as he to step onto the pitch once again, and so it was that the date was set.

A week before the match, Robert on a whim took a turn around the village shortly after breakfast to see the pitch himself and ensure that it was in a playable state. When he made it back home, he found all three of his daughters and his wife in the library. Mary was sitting in an armchair near the window reading, Cora and Sybil in the sitting area by the hearth, and Edith at the desk.

"I thought you'd be gone longer," Cora said as he came in.

"No, just getting a bit of air," he said, walking over to the sofa facing Cora and Sybil.

"Is the green ready for the cricket match?" Cora asked. "I spoke to the gardeners about the tents for us this morning."

"Yes, it all looks very good."

"And how are you getting on with the team?"

"I'm a bit worried about our numbers to be honest. When James and Patrick played, so did each of their valets and their butler. Matthew and Tom only bring Moseley with them."

"Won't Moseley be on the side of the village?" Mary asked, looking up from her book.

"Not if I've got anything to do with it," Robert responded quickly.

Sybil looked up from her embroidery and exchanged glances with Mary, both amused to see that time had not dulled their father's competitive spirit.

"Isn't Moseley's father captain of the village team?" Mary continued.

"The son works for the family now, so he'll be on our side," Robert replied. "We need him more than they do."

Sybil smiled at Robert. "Are you so sure of Moseley skill?"

"I'm only sure that if we can't field a proper team, we would have to forfeit the match. And I'm not prepared to concede victory to William Moseley so easily as mama."

The girls looked at one another and laughed.

"Well, the gardeners did say their team is in terrific shape," Cora put in.

Robert sighed. "It's so unfair the outside staff play for the village."

"Why don't you support the house and the village?" Edith asked. "You own both."

"I'm captain of the _house_ team," Robert said. "And anyway, the village merchants will all be their own landlords eventually, according to Matthew and Tom's plans. Half of them already are."

"If I were you, I'd be captain of the village," Cora said. "They always win."

"Not always," Robert said, with a face that told Cora he did not find her suggestion helpful. "Usually, but not always."

"Excuse me, your lordship."

The family all turned to see Carson coming into the room.

"Mr. Pratt is ready to take Lady Sybil to the hospital."

Sybil stood eagerly. "Thank you, Carson."

"What could you want to do at the hospital on a Saturday?" Robert asked.

"You know I've been going with Cousin Isobel. She volunteers on weekends, when there are fewer nurses on duty."

"But I thought we were driving into Ripon," Mary said, looking at her mother.

"We are," Cora replied. "Aren't you coming with us?" She asked Sybil.

"I've promised Isobel, and I am so looking forward to it."

"Are you sure you're not just getting in the way?" Robert asked sternly.

Annoyance began to bubble in Sybil's stomach. "Of course, I'm sure! I wouldn't go if I knew I was a nuisance. I genuinely want to help with whatever needs doing."

"But darling, won't you want something new to wear for the match?" Cora asked.

"Mama, I've plenty of white dresses, now please, I don't want to keep Pratt waiting and I still have to get my coat," she said, moving to leave the library with a determined stride.

"Then who's taking us to Ripon?" Mary asked.

"Edith can drive you," Sybil called out from the door. Mary did not miss the impish grin on Sybil's face as she left.

"We can't hold off anymore, Robert, we need another driver," Cora said. Quickly turning to Edith, she added, "No offense, darling."

Edith rolled her eyes with a laugh. "None taken."

"I suppose, you're right," Robert said scratching his head.

Cora gave Robert a knowing look. "Tom has been saying as much since before we went to London. Matthew has already said we have the wherewithal to do it. I know you don't like the bother of hiring, so swallow your pride, give Tom the task and be done with it."

Robert sighed.

"Think of your concession as an exercise in team unity," Mary said with a teasing smile.

"No need to make fun," Robert said sternly.

Cora and Edith couldn't help but laugh.

**XXX**

"Aren't you going to the hospital today, mother?" Matthew asked from behind the newspaper he was reading in the Crawley House parlor.

"I am," Isobel said from her spot on the sofa. "Sybil was kind enough to offer to have Pratt pick me up. Since it rained yesterday, she thought the lane might be a bit too muddy for me to walk."

"That was kind of her," Matthew answered.

"How is she taking to it?" Tom asked from where he sat writing on the desk.

Isobel thought for a moment. "She mostly just observes. I believe she's a bit apprehensive about how and when to help, given her lack of experience. When we did an inventory of Dr. Clarkson's patient files last week, she alphabetized the new ones from this past year and was happy to have done at least that much. It's so funny to think of Mary, Edith and Sybil as having so many advantages, but put them in a room full of unmade beds, and they'd get lost."

"That's rather unfair, mother," Matthew said.

"I don't blame _them_, certainly," Isobel said. "We all educate our children according to the life we expect them to lead, but what happens when life confounds those expectations?"

"Or when your children grow up to have expectations that are different from your own?" Tom said.

"What do you know of parenting?" Matthew asked teasingly.

"I know how to make my bed," Tom said with a laugh. "You could help her, Aunt Isobel. I've told you she has interest in medicine. You could show her where to start."

"She needs to find her own entry point," Isobel said kindly. "If she's going to stick with it, the journey has to be her own from the start."

"Well, you would know better than me," Tom said. "I'm glad she can count on you, either way."

"Excuse me, mum," Moseley said coming in with a tea tray.

"Oh, thank you, Moseley," Matthew said putting the paper away to take his cup. Tom walked over to the sofa next to Isobel for a cup as well.

"None for me, thank you, Moseley," Isobel said. "I expect Pratt will be here shortly."

"Very good, mum," the butler said, serving Matthew and Tom.

"Did you have a nice walk with your father this morning?" Isobel asked Moseley. "Mrs. Branson said you were out early."

"Indeed. Father wanted to ensure the green was ready for next week's match."

"What match?" Tom asked.

"Cricket, or didn't you hear Robert talking about it yesterday in the drawing room before dinner?" Matthew said with a laugh.

"I must have missed that," Tom said, stirring the sugar into his tea.

"It was an annual event in town before the family's departure," Moseley said. " I know the village players are keen to start it up again. His lordship as well."

"I hope he doesn't think I'll play," Tom said.

"I daresay you both might be needed, given the few number of men in the house," Moseley said, moving to stand by the entryway once he was done serving. "Frankly, I'm rather surprised he has not confirmed it with you already. As I remember, nobody takes it more seriously than his lordship. Whatever he likes to pretend."

"I don't doubt that," Matthew said. "I'll venture to guess he _assumes _we'll play, Tom."

"Well, he _assumes _wrong."

"Do you not like cricket, Mr. Branson?" Moseley asked in a surprised tone.

"Not particularly," Tom said, picking up the newspaper Matthew had discarded.

"Father tried teaching him once," Matthew told Moseley. "It didn't take."

"It's an Englishman's game," Tom said, rather humorlessly, without looking up from the paper.

"And English, you most certainly are not," Matthew said, looking over his teacup.

"I am, indeed, Irish by the grace of God," Tom replied. "What's more, any man not born in this country who plays that game has been coerced to do so by the forces of English paternalism—it's a mark of empire, plain and simple. I'd just as soon not be a party to it."

"You certainly don't have to, if you don't want to," Isobel said, patting him on the shoulder as she stood. "Though I don't think the fate of the revolution hangs on whether or not you are willing to don the whites for a village match."

Matthew laughed, and Tom cracked a smile in spite of himself.

"More to the point," Tom said. "I don't know how to play."

"I could show you, sir," Moseley said, encouragingly. "There's not much I don't know about cricket."

"I appreciate your enthusiasm, Moseley," Tom said, kindly. "But I assure you the game is not for me."

"Very well, sir," Moseley said, smiling. Hearing a knock on the door, he turned toward the hall.

"That must be Sybil," Isobel said. "Let her in, will you, Moseley, while I get my hat upstairs."

"Yes, mum," he said, leaving the parlor, Isobel behind him, heading to the stairs.

"I wonder what Cousin Sybil's position is on the politics of cricket," Matthew said playfully.

Tom furrowed his brow. "Closer to mine than yours, I'd wager."

"I've a feeling that a word from her and your resolve not to play will crumble."

Before Tom had a chance to respond, Moseley stepped in to announce Sybil. Tom and Matthew stood as she came in.

"Good morning," Sybil said brightly.

Matthew smiled, watching how completely Tom's demeanor changed.

"Good morning," Tom said, with a smile. "Off to the hospital?"

Sybil nodded. "And you?"

"I'll do a bit of work that I brought home later," he replied. "We might take a turn about the farms," he added looking to Matthew.

"And what are Mary and Edith up to?" Matthew asked.

"Off to the dressmaker's in Ripon," Sybil said. "Apparently, the cricket match is occasion enough for a new frock."

"And are _you_ looking forward to it?" Matthew asked, looking at Tom from the side of his eyes.

"I'd forgotten all about it, to be honest," Sybil said.

Tom looked at Matthew with a triumphant smile.

"Has Robert put together his team?" Matthew asked.

Sybil looked at Matthew curiously. "A strange question from someone papa expects to be on the team."

"I look forward to playing, though the same can't be said for Tom," Matthew said.

Sybil turned to him. "You aren't going to play? Because papa is counting on you as well."

Tom rolled his eyes. "I don't know or like the game. You'd think if I were needed on the team, I'd have been alerted to this fact already."

Sybil laughed. "It's papa. Does it really surprise you that he'd take such a thing as a given?"

Tom laughed. "I suppose not."

Isobel stepped back into the parlor, now with hat and coat on. "Thank you for waiting, my dear. Shall we be off?"

"Yes," Sybil said. Turning back to Tom, she added, "Please say hello to Mrs. Branson. It's been too long since I've had a visit with her."

"I will," Tom said, touched that Sybil always remembered his mother.

Matthew and Tom both gave a slight bow as Sybil and Isobel left.

"So what will you tell Robert?" Matthew asked Tom once they'd sat back down.

"He has to ask a question before he gets an answer," Tom said.

Matthew smiled. "I'm suddenly rather looking forward to dinner this evening."

Tom laughed as he picked up the newspaper again. "I'm glad I can amuse you."

**XXX**

After Pratt pulled up into the alley next to the hospital, Isobel and Sybil hopped out and walked in, leaving their hats and coats in the head nurse's small office, just inside the entrance. As they came back out, they saw Dr. Clarkson approaching.

Isobel turned to Sybil. "Would you like to join us on Dr. Clarkson's rounds?"

Sybil's eyes widened with delight. "May I?"

"I know you've been helping in the stock room," Isobel said, "but if you're interested in expanding your horizons. . . "

"Oh, please?" Sybil said, looking at Dr. Clarkson, trying but mostly failing to contain herself.

Dr. Clarkson smiled kindly. "It's kind of you to take an interest."

Isobel smiled and said, "Lead the way, Dr. Clarkson."

The doctor smiled and stepped forward toward the main wing.

As they walked, Isobel bent down to whisper to Sybil, "There's not much in the way of gruesome disease here, but if there's anything that troubles you, don't be embarrassed. Just step away."

Sybil nodded. "Did you see terrible sights in your time as a nurse?"

"I was a volunteer during South African War. There's nothing you don't see in war time."

Dr. Clarkson turned around smiling. "When Mrs. Crawley first moved to the village and expressed an interest in helping here at the hospital, I rather assumed she'd do so from afar, so to speak."

Sybil smiled. "Like my grandmother, you mean."

"Her ladyship's patronage has meant a lot to us over the years," Dr. Clarkson said. "She plays her part as well."

After a moment, Dr. Clarkson continued, "Given Mrs. Crawley's war time experience and Dr. Crawley's well-known work on the symptoms of infection in children, it remains something of a surprise to me that neither of the young gentlemen followed them into the profession."

"They wanted to forge their own paths, I think," Isobel said. "Both were of very much their own minds in that regard."

"Did it surprise you that they chose the same profession?" Sybil asked.

"Not entirely," Isobel answered. "They are in so many ways different, but in so many other ways very similar and complementary. They came at it by different interests—Tom an interest in politics and Matthew in history—but I think more than anything they wanted to work together."

Sybil smiled. "Do you think they'll ever have their own practice again?"

"Time will tell," Isobel said.

As the three made their way across the mostly empty ward, one of the few nurses working escorted a weeping woman out from the back.

Seeing Sybil's look of concern, Dr. Clarkson spoke, "Very distressing. A young tenant farmer, John Drake, came in today. It's dropsy, I'm afraid."

"May we see him?" Isobel asked.

"By all means," Dr. Clarkson said.

He led the two women around a small screen. Isobel, familiar with the disorder, was prepared for the sight, but Sybil was not. She brought her hand to her face to hold in her gasp as she saw the sweaty, jaundiced man, whose legs were swollen to a ghastly degree and covered with red puss-filled sores.

"Is the dropsy of the liver or the heart?" Isobel asked.

"Everything points to the heart," Dr. Clarkson said gravely.

Mr. Drake wheezed uncomfortably and coughed into a handkerchief in his hand. When he took it away, Sybil could see that there was blood on it. Dr. Clarkson approached the man and put his hands on his torso as if to check his swelling.

"All right, Mr. Drake," he said. "You're in safe hands now."

Isobel looked at Sybil, as if to see if she needed to step away, but Sybil shook off her discomfort. She took her own handkerchief out of her pocket and, sitting on the other side of Mr. Drake's bed, used it to wipe the sweat collecting on his forehead.

"We'll take good care of you," she said determinedly.

Dr. Clarkson looked over his shoulder to Isobel who was regarding Sybil with something akin to a mother's admiration. He stood and walked back over to Isobel, at the foot of the bed, and they both watched as Sybil comforted the man.

Isobel turned to Dr. Clarkson after a few moments and gestured for his stethoscope, which he handed over with a smile, already quite used to Isobel's hands-on approach. Other doctors might not take kindly to a woman's "meddling" in their profession, but for the most part Dr. Clarkson found Isobel to have good instincts and a kind professional manner. He had meant it when he told Sybil that Isobel's fortitude in the face of disease and injury constantly surprised him. Isobel liked to push the boundaries of common medical practices much more that Dr. Clarkson was comfortable, so it was only rarely that he took her advice, but he knew she meant well. Her presence at the hospital was never unwelcome.

Isobel stepped forward toward Mr. Drake, and Sybil stood to give Isobel room.

"May I?" Isobel asked the man.

Though barely able to move by his discomfort, Mr. Drake nodded. Isobel put the stethoscope to his chest moving it around from one side to the other, then lower to his abdomen. She stood again and said to Sybil, "Go ask Nurse Roberts to give you a basin of cold water and a towel, then bring it back and pat his head and neck with the dampened towel. It will offer a bit of relief."

Sybil nodded and turned quickly to go.

"Is it wise to involve her so?" Dr. Clarkson asked as he and Isobel came back into the ward from around the curtain that shielded Mr. Drake from the rest of the patients. "I can't imagine that his lordship would like this, a daughter of his caring for a tenant farmer."

"She wants to help," Isobel said. "And Lord Grantham is proud, certainly, but not uncharitable."

"If you say so," Dr. Clarkson said.

Isobel sighed. "What will happen to his wife?" She asked.

"She may try to keep the farm on. Grantham is not a harsh landlord, as you know, but her children are young."

"I'll mention it to my sons. They've said the farms are quite busy right now, but surely the agent is aware if the Drakes are falling behind. I'm sure Mr. Mason will see to the family so they won't be put out."

"That'll be one less worry, then," Dr. Clarkson responded.

Sybil came back with the basin and towel. Isobel smiled when she saw that Sybil had put on a nurse's apron. She and Dr. Clarkson watched wordlessly as Sybil walked back to care for Mr. Drake.

"It's definitely the heart," Isobel said after Sybil had disappeared behind the curtain. "It's almost too quiet to hear at all."

"I'm afraid so," he said.

"There are treatments that are available," Isobel said. "I know considerable success has been achieved over the last few years by draining the pericardial sac of the excess fluid and administering adrenaline."

Dr. Clarkson sighed. He might have anticipated this. It was always with the most complicated cases that Isobel sought to intervene. "Mrs. Crawley, I appreciate your thoroughness—"

"Are you unwilling to try it?" She asked, cutting in.

"Injection of adrenaline is a comparatively new procedure."

"It's a while ago now, but I saw my husband do it. I know how."

He took a deep breath. "Please, Mrs. Crawley, don't—don't force me to be uncivil. I appreciate that you have some knowledge of medicine, and you're helping hand has been a welcome one, but the patients here are my responsibility."

"Dr. Clarkson, your judgment has always ruled when I have made suggestions in the past, and I don't seek to usurp your authority, but surely this time—"

"We would be setting an impossible precedent when every villager could demand the latest fad in treatment for each new cut and graze."

"I would remind you that we're not talking of a cut or a graze, but the loss of a man's life and the ruin of his family."

"You just said yourself that Mr. Crawley and Mr. Branson would see that Mrs. Drake and her children would be looked after!"

"If it comes to the worst, yes, but it doesn't have to!" Isobel insisted.

"I understand what's at stake for him, but I beg you to see that it is . . . not reasonable," Dr. Clarkson said. He looked over Isobel's shoulder to see Sybil coming out from behind the curtain again and hoped that this would be the end of the discussion.

"He fell asleep," Sybil said quietly, not having heard all of their argument but enough to know the substance of their quarrel.

"Thank you, Lady Sybil," Dr. Clarkson said with a tense smile. "I have some matters to attend to in my office, but feel free to help the nurses as you can."

"Thank you, Dr. Clarkson," Sybil said.

After he'd walked away, Sybil approached Isobel. "Is there really something that may be done to save Mr. Drake?"

Isobel nodded. "It's not a common procedure, which is why Dr. Clarkson is skeptical as to its effectiveness."

"If it goes wrong, Mr. Drake could die?"

Isobel nodded.

"And if nothing is done, what will happen?"

Isobel sighed. "He'll die."

"So what's the harm in trying?" Sybil asked, a bit incredulous that a doctor would hesitate when a life was in the balance.

"When we consider the marvel that is the function of the human body, and the vast collection of information and knowledge contained within it, we must acknowledge that doctors truly know very little about how it all works. But so much can be done to prolong and improve life with that tiny bit of knowledge we _do_ have, that we cling to it—sometimes to a fault—because we don't know what will happen if we push into the unknown. When we ask the question, 'What can be done to help Mr. Drake?' Dr. Clarkson chooses the answer that is known to him."

"Even if it means Mr. Drake won't get well?"

Isobel nodded again.

"Couldn't you do it without him?" Sybil asked. "I don't mean you should flout his authority, but what harm can there be if the worst result may come to pass anyway?"

"Alas, I am not Mr. Drake's doctor. Only a concerned helper."

Sybil frowned.

Isobel put her hand on Sybil's shoulder. "Come, dear, let's see where else we may be useful."

"There's not much usefulness in offering a valuable opinion and being ignored," Sybil said, quietly, almost as if she were talking to herself.

**XXX**

Several hours later, in the late afternoon, Sybil and Tom found themselves once again lying on the grass on the bank of the creek near the Downton Abbey gates.

Tom had arrived first. After taking his jacket off, rolling up his sleeves and loosening his tie, he rolled up the jacked and, using it as a pillow, laid back on the grass to read Walter Bagehot's Physics and Politics while he waited for Sybil. After returning to the big house from the hospital, she had a late luncheon, then excused herself to go walking and doing so directly toward where she knew her beloved would be waiting. She arrived still exhilarated from her work at the hospital and told Tom stories of all the patients she was allowed to visit with in between kisses.

Eventually, they settled back down on the grass to read quietly side by side. He was in the position he'd been in when he arrived, occasionally looking over to her from his book. She lay on her stomach, resting on her elbows, her own book—a collection of the writings of Florence Nightingale, a birthday gift from Tom—spread open in front of her. But her mind was too full to focus on something she'd already read twice over anyway.

"I was surprised that Cousin Isobel acquiesced so easily," Sybil said with a sigh, referring back to the quarrel she'd overheard about Mr. Drake's treatment, which she'd related to Tom.

Tom looked over at her and said with a grin. "If I know her, this is hardly the last of it."

"So you think she'll insist?"

"I do. She's mentioned disagreements with Dr. Clarkson before, but nothing so serious as this."

"I just don't understand why he would resist something new if it could be lifesaving."

"It's in your nature to see hope and possibility in change and in the unknown. I'm afraid most of the world isn't like that."

Sybil sighed. "I'm starting to see that."

Tom laughed.

"What?"

"Dr. Clarkson can handle Aunt Isobel, but I have a feeling he'll rue the day you stepped into his hospital."

Sybil lifted her nose in the air. "I'll take that as a compliment."

Tom sat up and leaned over to kiss her. "That's precisely how I meant it."

Sybil smiled and kissed him back. After a moment, she narrowed her eyes. "Why didn't you choose to become a doctor?"

"It was never an interest of mine. I know Uncle Reg did wonderful work, but I always felt a bit queasy when he spoke of it. In school, biology was my worst subject."

Sybil looked down at her book again. "You know, Tom . . ."

"Yes?"

"I am not so different from her, Florence Nightingale," she said gesturing to her book. "She was already twenty-four when she entered her profession, and she was largely self-educated and quite political."

Tom nodded.

"And here I am reading _her_ work and not that of the very many doctors who likely told her time and again that they knew better."

Tom nodded again.

"It's just . . ."

"What?" He asked quietly.

"Something Gwen said once—that it's easier to think you can do it, once you know someone else has done it before you."

Tom smiled, and Sybil leaned into him again for another kiss, after which she turned her attention back to her book. He laid back down on the grass with the intention of getting back to his own reading, but for most of the rest of the afternoon, he was content just to watch her.


End file.
